 
A RUSH OF SILENCE

William White-acre

copyright 2017 by william white-acre

Smashwords Edition

*other books by this author:

Surrounded By Mythology

I, The Hero

True For X

Forgotten Faces

white-acre.wixsite.com/photography

Table Of Contents

Chapter 1 Bethany Wilson: 1st Victim

Chapter 2 Anton Martell: The Photographer

Chapter 3 Carlos Ortega: 2nd Victim

Chapter 4 Dr. Rachel Winters: The Biologist

Chapter 5 Kristen Snow: 3rd Victim

Chapter 6 Caleb Foster: The Hunter

Chapter 7 Mobilizing

Chapter 8 The Call

Chapter 9 A Decision

Chapter 10 Sherry Pell: 4th Victim

Chapter 11 Into The Blackhills

Chapter 12 Ryan Paulsen: 5th Victim

Chapter 13 Confrontation

Chapter 14 Epilogue

A RUSH OF SILENCE

Chapter 1 Bethany Wilson: 1st Victim

She was just ten years old. Red hair. Freckles. Ordinary. The little girl was survived by her parents.

Although the details were still undefined, the one salient fact stood out: a small girl had been mauled and killed by an animal. Bite marks. Clawed flesh. Missing body parts. The grisly account shocked the Verde Valley, a tourist destination point that included Sedona, Arizona.

It was just coming on winter, a time when another scorching summer had begun to be forgotten. After months of triple digit temperatures and then the humid conditions of a desert monsoon season, fraught with lightning induced forest fires, the locals were happy to see a brief autumn give way to cooler days and cold nights. The sun, always the sun, still warmed the valley floor, giving off beautiful sunsets over Mingus Mountain, but it was tempered by a shift in wind direction, bringing in the threat of snow in the higher elevations.

The bear population was well into their hibernation patterns, seeking out dens throughout the Black Hills that loomed over the Verde Valley. Less than a hundred years before miners had sunk mineshafts all over the mountain range in hope of finding their fortune. Now Arizonans and tourists crawled all over the mountains on their ATV's and four wheel drive vehicles, using the old miner roads for sport and entertainment, while hunters pursued deer and elk through the many ravines.

The valley was home to many different types of game and the ecosystem supported javelina, badgers, coyotes, skunks, ring tail, coati, along with eagles and other raptors. At the top of the food chain was the mountain lion, the elusive cat, a predator without a natural rival in the habitat. Unless you add humans to the mix, where the State of Arizona permitted hunting of the large cat from late August to May.

The cougar was present from the tip of South America all the way up into Canada. It was a survivor, which had even been sighted as far east as Indiana. It lived by stealth and utilized an ambush technique to hunt its prey. Males could grow to be well over a hundred pounds and were capable of taking down large deer and elk, attacking the windpipe with a death bite to the neck area. Territorial, each cat could cover a range of over a 100 miles in search of food. Sleek, highly athletic, able to jump large distances, agile, with sharp claws and teeth, the animal was perfectly suited for different types of terrain. Like most from the cat family, it could climb trees too. Where ever deer roamed it would follow.

Until relatively recent the cat didn't attack humans, choosing not to interact with advancing civilization if at all possible. It wasn't necessarily shy as much as strategic, paring down its activity to pursuit of a food source. Up until 1970 a bounty had been placed on its head by the government in an attempt to eradicate the problem ranchers and farmers might face with the loss of livestock. Mountain lions weren't adverse to taking calves when the opportunity presented itself. Just the year before in the Verde Valley several pet goats had been killed and spirited away, along with numerous calves on several different ranches in the area.

It was an age old problem in the west. The animal population was being crowded out of their habitats, leaving conflict inevitable. Ranchers were accustomed to having wide swaths of land for grazing their cattle, while civilization advanced away from the cities. Developers had drawn up plans that extended suburban living into the forests and mountains all around the state of Arizona. Although relatively small, the population of Arizona was clustered around several population centers and expanding. You tube videos exposed the animal/human dynamic by showing eye witness accounts of invading wild life. The local news seldom skipped an opportunity to air a bear wandering too close for comfort or, in one notorious incident, a mother mountain lion and her cub frolicking on one of Phoenix's renowned golf courses.

Animals were being pushed out of their territory, left to assimilate with people who were encroaching on their survival. Attacks were the natural result of such crowding. Even some unlucky tourists had fallen victim to the warping of the standing ecosystem, with, for example, one man from Europe being attacked by an angry Javelina, sending him to the hospital for over twenty stitches to his leg. Although college biologists were out there proclaiming the rights of nature and what society has to do in order to accommodate or maintain the balance, an unstable truce continued.

Bethany Wilson had been an innocent bystander, too young to have a say. The American Southwest had vast tracts of land--stretches of wilderness--but in some places the cougar was down to a last foothold. Unfortunately, Bethany fell victim to that dwindling sweep of real estate. Her parents had chosen to rent a home in an unincorporated area of the valley, where undulating hills of the valley floor licked at the back door to their house. Stretching out for miles and ending on towards the Mogollon Rim was open land.

The family had found it ideal, the three bed room house with the horse corral out back. Rent was relatively low and there were no neighbors within shouting distance. A dirt road unwound from Cornville Road, the main artery that linked Cottonwood and the small communities that were near Interstate 17. Bethany's father liked the place immediately, envisioning plenty of space to set up a work shop, a place where he could work on the custom furniture that was his second job. He worked at the Home Depot in Cottonwood but dreamed of establishing a business supplying specially designed pieces for the people in Sedona.

Her mother worked at home, baking custom creations for her friend's cottage industry cake business. The pay was minimal but steady, enabling her to home school her daughter, something many of the people in the valley chose to do. Partially for religious reasons, and political, she wanted to control what her daughter learned. As parents, they wanted to impart their libertarian views onto their child, fearing any exposure to public education would undermine what they wanted Bethany to believe. Unlike her husband, She saw the house as a temporary situation until they were able to afford their own home.

Their daughter was active and loved being able to roam the surrounding area around their house unencumbered by any type of traditional neighborhood. Cornville was unincorporated for a reason. People chose to live their for the general sense of freedom, free of most ordinances and regulations living in a city or town brought. In practice, you found half paved roads, often wandering off up and over hills to only come to an abrupt end without warning, no municipal sewage system, no street lights, bringing an inky blackness to the area after dark, and an injection of self-autonomy people in the West were desirous of.

As in many communities across Arizona, the ones that shared Cornville's makeup, wildlife and humans co-existed "cheek to jowl" as the first Yavapai Sheriff's deputy on the scene liked to put it. It wasn't uncommon to have elk or deer appearing out the window or fresh badger tracks in your earthen driveway. The air around the town gave off a musty, organic smell born of feed, hay, and animal dung.

Bethany was ten years old, enjoying her time at home with her mother, even though her best friend attended a charter school in town. Her mother had only a High School education but she assiduously adhered to an online instruction manual, blending in tracts from the Bible regularly in order to ground her daughter in a vaguely fundamental leaning education. This left Bethany apart from her friends most of the time but she loved helping her mother in the kitchen, interlaced with her schooling.

Her school hours of instruction fluctuated from day to day, depending on how much piece work her mother had to do or catch up on. Even while baking though her mother would try to include some basic math in the recipes or improvement of her reading skills while reciting the ingredients as they prepped for the next baking order. As with her approach to home schooling, Mrs. Wilson was meticulous about her baking.

It was a Friday the day Bethany disappeared. Mrs. Wilson had been busy all that day trying to fill several orders. One order was for a wedding cake and she had botched the layering once before changing to another recipe. Her boss had called twice by ten o'clock to check on her progress. Mrs. Wilson didn't liked to be pressured when she baked but it was unavoidable sometimes. Her boss was one of her best friends too so their work relation was a solid one. She never failed to make an order deadline and always delivered near perfection.

The day had started out wrong when she overslept. The night before she hadn't slept much since her husband had brought home a new puppy. It was to be the new family pet. He had stopped by the humane society and selected a mutt, "half retriever half werewolf" he had said over the phone when he called his wife to tell her what he had done. She was apprehensive at first, thinking it was too soon. Not three months before their pet dog had gone missing.

Pinky, Bethany had named her. She had a large hallo of pink around her eyes, giving her a doll like appearance. She had been found wandering around the back streets one day when they were coming home from church. Bethany, then five years old at the time, had insisted her dad stop the car. The dog immediately rushed towards them, tail wagging. There was no collar on her and she seemed to be a stray. They took her home with them and she and Bethany became inseparable. As with some dogs, Pinky had a wonderful disposition and seldom if ever was aggressive. She was small, a mixture of so many breeds it was difficult to determine what her lineage was.

Later, after their daughter's body had been found, the Wilson's realized that their missing dog had been an unintentional warning. One morning the family realized Pinky was gone. Bethany's father had inserted a doggie door in the kitchen door so the dog could go in and out whenever he wanted. Although the dog was a small dog it was happiest when she was outside. The family trusted her to return when she wanted to and the arrangement worked remarkably well. Pinky would spend many hours out back and seldom left the property, pushing through his personal door with a sharp bark to announce her arrival whenever she came into the kitchen.

Pets become a part of the family, like another child. Bethany had been devastated to learn her pet had gone missing, but her parents were equally dismayed. They searched for days throughout the area, and put up flyers around the town with a photo at the bottom. No one called. Finally, over a month later, Mrs. Wilson quietly removed her bowl from the kitchen floor, wanting to move pass the tiny tragedy. It took Bethany longer to get over the loss.

Now she had to contend with a puppy whining all night, restricted to a makeshift corral to keep him from relieving himself on the carpet. The family was suffering through the house breaking period, attempting to teach the dog the rules of the house. With the puppy nipping at her socks while she baked, Mrs. Wilson tried to catch up with her orders. It wasn't like her to fall this far behind. She had decided to give Bethany a day off from school work, while she plowed through the orders. With baking though it wasn't possible to speed up the process. Baking inherently took blocks of time. Then after came the dressing stage, applying the finishing touches that were individually ordered. Custom orders always took concentration and a certain level of precision. Birthdays, Weddings, Anniversaries, Retirements, each one demanded its own attention to detail.

Bethany had been left on her own for most of the day, told to complete some lessons her mother drew up for her. Around three o'clock, as Mrs. Wilson was just applying the final touches to one of the orders, fielding a call once again from her friend asking about her progress, Bethany came into the kitchen to ask her mother for permission to go outside and play in the back. Mrs. Wilson asked her if she had finished her lesson plan and was told that she had. Squeezing letters onto the top layer of the cake and speaking to her boss, she casually gave her permission. Bethany smiled, took a swipe of leftover icing with her finger as she often did, and dashed out the back door. It would be the last time Mrs. Wilson ever saw her daughter.

Mr. Wilson got home from work around five. He found his wife still in the kitchen cleaning up her work dishes, trying to set up for dinner. He stood by the kitchen door for a moment, letting the aroma of fresh baked cakes sweep over him. It was a sensation he knew he was never going to get tired of. They exchanged greetings, with him peeking in the boxes of bakery goods to see what she had made, receiving a good-natured smack on the hand for his troubles. She told him she had been working on her projects all day, after having to start over once because she had "messed up the order." He kissed his wife and asked about Bethany.

"I don't know," Mrs. Wilson said vacantly, turning to look out the kitchen window, almost stepping on the puppy at her feet.

"You don't know," her husband said, surprised.

"I was so busy...I let her go out to play," she said, as a stray sliver of concern slipped into her voice.

"She's probably out back fooling around," her husband said, scooping up the puppy and going outside. "Wanta go see what Bethany's up to?" The puppy licked at his face. "Come on, let's go surprise her."

Mrs. Wilson watched her husband go out the door then answered the phone again, telling her friend, "Got it done-finally." She could almost hear a sigh of relief on the other end. "I know, you promised this today. Can you come by and pick it up or do you want me to swing by there now? I still got dinner to get going but--" She listened as her friend said she would pick up the cake because she had to deliver it that very night since the customer had changed their plans, moving up the party. "Great. Saves me a trip."

Just ten minutes later her friend pulled up to the house and left her car running as she walked to the front door. They exchanged hellos and a little shop talk then she left with cake in hand. Mrs. Wilson loved baking but sometimes it became burdensome and more of a job than an avocation. She stood at the door for a moment and watched her boss disappear down the road, in route to Cottonwood to deliver the cake.

"Honey," her husband called from the back door, "I couldn't find her. Are you sure she's not in her room?"

"What?" she called out, now a little more worried.

"It's getting dark out there," her husband declared, trying not to hurry into his daughter's room.

They both converged on her bedroom, arriving at the same time. Sitting on her bed was her lesson plan, neatly stacked next to her books. The room was tidy, an attribute their daughter had that continued to surprise her parents. Her tiny shoes were lined up in the closet, equally spaced apart. All of her clothes were neatly hung on hangers, arranged by color. Mrs. Wilson had once asked one of her friends if she needed to be worried about her daughter's predilection for orderliness and was told to enjoy it.

Mr. Wilson stared at the poster on the far wall with the wild mustangs running across a mesa, the one his daughter had seen at a store in Flagstaff and begged him to buy for her. Mrs. Wilson walked to the bed and picked up one of the four stuffed animals arranged neatly across the pillow. Without thinking, she raised it to her face to sniff at the material. Her daughter had received it some five years before as a birthday gift.

"I'm going to call over to Cory's house to see if she went there," she suddenly announced, heading back into the kitchen.

"Who do you want me to call?" he wanted to know, reaching in his pocket to pull out his cell phone.

"Try...try the Marshalls...maybe she went there," she answered, reaching for the land line phone, punching the speed dial. Bethany and Cory had been friends since they were toddlers. Cory's family was the closest neighbor, just down the road. "Come on...somebody answer," she muttered, listening to the phone ring. "Dammit," she cursed under her breath when she heard the answering machine pick up. "Hello, uh...I'm looking for Bethany. Give me a call when you get this."

"They haven't seen her," Mr. Wilson called out from the other room. "Who's next? Who else can I call?" he asked, trying not to let any sort of alarm slip into his voice.

"Are you sure you checked everywhere out back?" she shouted out, now becoming frantic with worry. "Sometimes she likes to go up on the ridge, you know."

"I checked," he declared, irritated. "I didn't see her anywhere."

Like many places around Arizona, especially in the unincorporated areas, after dark a blanket of darkness settled over the land, like a celestial curtain had been drawn. Most of the locales didn't have any street lights and except for the occasional illumination from sparsely placed houses there were no outdoor lights. It's an astronomer's dream, was how one of the local law enforcement officers described it. All encompassing blackness, so said one of the original journalists to write about the disappearance.

"It's dark out, honey," Mrs. Wilson cried out, fighting off a sob.

Her husband embraced her and said, "It'll be okay. We'll find her."

A moment later Cory's mother called and told them she had seen Bethany earlier in the day but she had left her house to return home around four o'clock. The die was set. The Wilsons had become another statistic. Missing child. Disappeared. Loss. The template was well established. There was going to be a media spasm, complete with photographs and probably videos. News organizations would devote time and space to the case. Personal tidbits would tumble out, spilling into the public's consciousness.

Mr. Wilson made a few more phone calls, long shots, hoping to find his daughter. Mrs. Wilson looked out the window at the inky black night, unable to control her emotions. Then the police were called. The Yavapai Sheriff's office was notified because they had jurisdiction over the unincorporated town. Mr. Wilson knew the Sheriff's office response would be slow and probably ineffectual so he called a friend of his that worked for the Cottonwood police. It was a neighboring town but he hoped his friend would help out in any way he could.

His friend, the police officer, had just gotten off duty and told him on the phone that he would come right over to their house. He arrived a short time later and listened to what had transpired, noting that the Wilson's had called all of their daughter's friends. He decided immediately that something had gone wrong, placing a call to the Yavapai Sheriff's office, contacting a friend he knew on the force. This sped up the response time immediately.

By midnight, as the Wilson's sat exhausted by fear and anticipation in their kitchen, an organized search had been launched. Teams of volunteers fanned out behind the house and on up into the forest land. Standing at the Wilson's back door you could see a constellation of flashlights spanning as far as you could see in both directions. The working theory was that she might have injured herself out in the wilderness and was incapacitated. Up in the higher elevations the temperature would be dropping into the thirties overnight. Hypothermia was a very real concern.

Although Mr. Wilson's cop friend didn't want to voice another alternative scenario, most of the volunteers were thinking about it. Abduction couldn't be ruled out. Bethany was an open, trusting little girl, one brought up in a small town that didn't have much reason to fear any criminal intent. The fact remained as far as they traced her movements during the time period she would have at one time been walking down the long dirt road that led to her house. It wasn't well traveled. A sexual predator would have had ample opportunity to snatch a gullible child and not ever be seen. Once back off the dirt road going east or west on Cornville Road would have taken them quickly away from the area, north on I-17 to I-40 or south to Phoenix or anywhere.

Sex offenders did live in the valley. The local newspaper printed their arrival whenever they registered. It was the law. Although they were unwelcome, it was an established procedure. The police, on a dual track with the search effort, had already begun to check the registry, trying to piece together any possible link. "Rattling the cage," so said a detective assigned to the case from Yavapai County. There would be no leads, no results.

The search went on for most of the night. Mr. Wilson stayed up the entire night, drinking cup after cup of coffee, while his wife finally fell asleep as the sun was coming up. The searchers wandered in the next morning, cold and tired. A woman from the Yavapai Sheriff's Office appeared around eight o'clock, having driven up from Prescott. She was sent there to be the liaison, the go between, a link connecting the Wilson, the Sheriff's Office and the media. "Hello, my name's Sherry, I'm from the Yavapai County Sheriff's Office," she greeted the Wilson's the next morning, trying to strike a friendly but professional tone. She had only joined the Sheriff's Office the month before, transferring from an out of state police force.

The Wilsons were worn down by having to meet numerous representatives of the local authorities. Just that morning Mr. Wilson had a testy exchange with the supervisor of the Forest Patrol Unit over the way he was devoting his resources to the search. Mr. Wilson, like everyone else, knew that time was working against them.

Inertia had set in. It was a common occurrence during search and rescue operations. The 48 hour window had passed, leaving yawning uncertainty. The searchers were tired and disillusioned. Only the parents dared not think about the obvious. Police officers came and went. Volunteers drifted away. At least the local media continued the drumbeat of publicity about a little missing girl near Sedona, Arizona.

The Wilson's were advised to utilize the media's insatiable appetite for stories. "Work them," the media liaison told them, notching her eye brows for emphasis. "They are vital." Mrs. Wilson turned over a few videos of her daughter: birthday party, first time on horse back, and playing with the family dog. Bethany was a photogenic model, always quick to smile for the camera. "You have to make the public care about her," Sherry informed them, speaking in a whisper so no one within ear shot could hear her. She was stepping beyond her professional bounds and didn't want to interfere with the investigation.

All the affiliates in Phoenix picked up the story, quickly followed by the cable outlets. Cute little girls gone missing were big entertainment, something to feature on the broadcasts. With the disappearance came the invasive and, mostly, base speculations that quickly evolved into accusations. TV, the hot medium, led the way with salacious fiction, tearing into the Wilson's personal life. Neighbors were recruited to give impromptu testimony, anything to keep the bright lights lighted.

Slander went viral, with strangers weighing in, passing judgement. Mr. Wilson had returned to find his wife had strangled their young daughter and he reluctantly aided in the cover up. Why? They were having financial difficulties and Mrs. Wilson had made a cold, calculated decision to ease the burden. No, bloggers added, the mother had "lost it" one day and snapped, ending in Bethany's violent demise. Others pointed to the father being a pedophile and a murderer. The mother was an innocent victim in the whole episode of criminality.

Sordid as it all became, nothing changed the fact that Bethany Wilson was missing. Vanished. One day she was playing in her back yard and the next she was a ghost, gone. The town of Cornville had a vigil set up and most of the towns people participated. Candles were lit and a procession walked slowly through town and on out to the Wilson's house. Mrs. Wilson watched from the living room window as a trail of tiny lights streamed towards them, sobbing. It had been over a week since she last saw her daughter.

Two weeks. A month. Then seven weeks later there was news. The Wilson's received a call from the Sheriff's office. A hunter had stumbled across human remains half buried almost a quarter mile from their home. How had all of the searchers missed it? he wanted to know, as his wife tried to control her emotions.

"Is it her?" she asked her husband. "Tell me! Is it her?"

"I don't know yet," he replied, trying not to think about what it all might mean.

"Oh God...I...I don't think I can go with you to the police station," she declared, sitting down at the kitchen table and wiping away a few tears that were streaming down her cheek. "Don't ask me to go with you."

Mr. Wilson knew it had to be his daughter. Probabilities took precedent in his mind even if he didn't want to entertain the thought of his daughter's dead body out there in the wilderness. Then he grew angry thinking about the monster who might have committed the atrocity. Killing a little girl was pure evil, he thought, clinching his fists, as he thought about pulverizing who ever it was that was guilty of such a crime.

Even though the coroner had to make a ruling, it was more than obvious that the decomposed body found in the hills outside of Cornville was a small child. What was perhaps more disturbing was the fact that the body had been half eaten, with the remainder hastily buried. At first, it was thought that animals in the area had feasted on the corpse, leaving it in the state that it was discovered. Scavengers roamed everywhere in that vicinity and they would have picked up on the scent almost immediately after the brutal homicide had been enacted.

"Still working as a homicide?" the coroner asked the Deputy who had dropped by to check on the progress of the autopsy.

"Yeah, sure," the deputy replied, confused. "What else you got going?"

The coroner thought for a moment and said, "There were lots of bite marks and scratches--dunno, looks like it must have been some psycho type of killer."

"Are you saying the suspect ate parts of her body before he took off?" the deputy said, making a face. "Hannibal Lecter stuff?"

The coroner chose his words carefully and said, "I think I might have to bring in a biologist friend of mine from ASU. She's seen animal attacks a lot before or at least what they look like after the fact."

"Do what you gotta do," the deputy announced, shrugging.

Mr. Wilson arrived at the morgue and sat in his car unable to will himself to go inside. He had not wanted to face this alone but his wife was in too fragile a state to witness something that might be this psychologically damaging. He himself was just barely keeping up with his declining composure. Between the media hounding him and his wife and his mounting paranoia centered around the idea that he thought everyone else believed he was capable of killing his daughter, it was starting to unravel his sanity. Fortunately, a few friends at work had stayed in his corner, bolstering his mental stamina.

Now, as he sat in his truck and watched people coming and going in the parking lot, he just wanted to turn around and drive home, back to his wife. It had become the two of them against the world or at least it certainly felt that way. There had been no respite for the last six or seven weeks since the disappearance. The police had questioned him and his wife countless times and each time the questions became more and more intense. In his mind he could hear: It is almost always the parents. It is almost always the parents. Amateur detectives everywhere knew that. Egged on by TV commentators with bombastic opinions, the authorities were being whipped sawed by what should and could be done.

Finally, he worked up enough resolve to walk inside. Surely, he wondered, they have forensic evidence that could distinguish what the remains found buried in the dirt were. The coroner was, at this stage, working at a disadvantage because most of the clothing had been soiled beyond recognition and shredded, while the head had been completely removed, excised, and carted away. There were no dental records to work from. No finger prints on file. One item of note was a bracelet attached to the one remaining arm and one tennis shoe.

The coroner knew the cruel import of the body viewing. Asking a parent to identify the remains was a "necessary negative," as he called it. Further, his report had made an unexpected turn and was leaning towards an animal incident. His friend from ASU took measurements and reviewed the file, wanting to know all about where the body was found and what condition it was in. She had come to the conclusion that it might have been a mountain lion attack. This would throw the brakes on the investigation. All of the momentum was hurtling towards a crazed killer on the loose. The media had long since stamped it as a homicidal event, with all the requisite gore to accompany it.

"Mr. Wilson, my name is Dr. Anders...sorry about asking you to come down here but--"

"It has to be done," Mr. Wilson stated, trying silently to brace himself for the ordeal that was about to come off.

"Right," the coroner replied, leading the way down the corridor.

It was cold in the room, sterile. Overhead a fluorescent light hummed. A stainless steel table was in the center, surrounded by instruments on tables with wheels. A strange odor permeated the air. The coroner paused for a moment, as if trying to get his bearings. Mr. Wilson fought to steady himself, prepared for the worse.

A human shape was outlined under a white sheet lying on the table. At first, Mr. Wilson hadn't noticed that the form under the sheet was abbreviated, missing something. An assistant stuck his head in the room briefly, started to say something and, realizing what was occurring, quickly apologized and stepped back out of the room. The coroner smiled weakly at Mr. Wilson.

"Cold in here," Mr. Wilson offered, avoiding eye contact.

"Sorry about that," the coroner said by way of explanation. "As the detective might have told you over the phone, we have two articles...two pieces of clothing taken from the body." He held up two clear, plastic evidence bags, with magic marker on written on the side of each. "I will need for you to examine these," the coroner said, adopting a more professional tone for a moment."

Mr. Wilson nodded, then said, "Okay."

"We would prefer that you don't touch the bags," the coroner explained, presenting the bags so Mr. Wilson could examine them in the light.

Mr. Wilson drew his breath in, as he quickly recognized the red tennis shoe. Bethany's aunt had given her the shoes for her last birthday. "It's hers," he cried out, sobbing.

"You are positive?" the coroner asked.

Mr. Wilson nodded and stated in a quivering voice: "That's my daughter's bracelet. We bought it for her a few months ago. She hardly ever took it off."

"Okay...I don't think there will be any need to see the body then," the coroner announced, hoping to conclude the interview as soon as possible.

"I...I think I want to see her," Mr. Wilson declared, glancing over at the figure under the white sheet.

"It won't be necessary at this point, Mr. Wilson," the coroner assured him.

Wiping away a tear, Mr. Wilson mumbled, "I have to."

Slowly the coroner removed the sheet covering the body, the victim he had performed the autopsy on just the day before. As the sheet was drawn away, Mr. Wilson gasped and stepped back away from the table. Blanched white, with blotches of angry red, the corpse appeared waxy and artificial. A large stitch work of carvings were etched across what was left of the torso. Mr. Wilson's eyes grappled with what he was seeing. Then tears began to well up in his eyes as he noticed that the head of his daughter was not there. Yet he knew.

"Mr. Wilson," the coroner suddenly called out, as he rushed forward to prevent him from collapsing to the floor. He helped him to a nearby chair, assisting him as he sat down.

"Who did this to my little daughter?" Mr. Wilson begged to know. "What monster could--"

His words were drowned out by his sobs. The coroner felt immediately drained, as if he had been punched in the stomach. He could only imagine how the father felt. Quickly, he replaced the sheet and escorted Mr. Wilson back out to the outer office, where two police detectives waited. The aftermath was just beginning for the Wilsons.

The two detectives hadn't spoken with the biologist from ASU, who had made a preliminary determination that Bethany Wilson had died from an animal attack. The Police Department wasn't ready to agree with that judgement. They still believed the little girl had died from foul play and were still looking at the parents as their number one suspects.

As Wilson was leaving the building two detectives caught up with him, with one of them calling out: "Mr. Wilson, my name is Detective--"

"I know who you are," Mr. Wilson snapped, remembering how the detective team had questioned him for several days running, insinuating all sorts of despicable things about him and his wife.

"We would like to ask you some questions about what you already said, some things we aren't too clear about," the other detective added, stepping up closer to where Mr. Wilson was sitting.

"Everyone tells me I should get a lawyer but I don't give a shit about that," Mr. Wilson spat out, glaring at the two detectives. "I just saw what was left of my daughter's body, so if you think I did that--go for it. Charge me. If not, leave me and my wife alone!" He rose to his feet and stormed out of the building.

"We'll be in touch," one of the detectives called after him, shaking his head.

"Sure looks like he's grieving to me," the other detective stated, shrugging.

"Might still be one of those cold stone killer types. You never know," his partner muttered, fielding a call on his cell phone.

Two weeks later, after more examinations, with another expert brought in, the complexion of the case changed completely. A brief press conference was held and the county coroner stated that Bethany Wilson had been killed by a wild animal, probably a mountain lion. As the photographers snapped photos and the TV cameras whirled, it was little solace to the Wilsons, who remained in mourning after being labeled murderers who killed their own daughter.

A short time later, as the media went onto other sensational stories, not bothering to offer any apologies, the Wilson's held a small ceremony at a cemetery in Cottonwood and buried their only child in relative obscurity. Only one person from the media was on hand, a reporter for the local paper, who hung back out of respect, standing under a tree, debating whether or not she should take a photo.

Chapter 2 Anton Martel: The Photographer

Being first generation American, his father and mother having immigrated from France, he was far from unique in a country founded and nourished by waves of immigration for several centuries. Although, in his particular case, there was something singularly novel about his father, that being his chosen profession back in his home country. He was what they call in French a demineur, which is a bomb disposal expert. As can be expected, his mother wasn't thrilled about this, having spent many a day (and night since some of his work took place after dark) wondering if she was ever going to see her husband again.

Apparently his father developed enough expertise to survive at dismantling ordinance for over ten years, something 630 other brave--or foolhardy--European souls did not manage, dating back to 1946. The Continent was a proving ground for what the German military theorist Carl von Clausewitz liked to say was compelling your enemy to accept your will. Directly applied, this meant dropping bombs and heaving artillery rounds by the ton, which left behind a deadly mosaic of ordinance buried in the ground. World War I alone deposited some 15 percent of 700 million artillery rounds in the ground, laying dormant, waiting to exact a mortal wound. His father, remarkably, was never nervous about this geographic fact.

His father, Mr. Martel, was a man who was able to compartmentalize his actions, sectioning them into segments as he negotiated his way through life. He would see no less than two of his friends perish, obliterated by explosions. These were men who were called in to disarm bombs and artillery rounds from an era long forgotten or at least ignored. World War? Huns. Nazis. Fascists. Always the Germans. The French had gone to war on two occasions, reaping little but leftover bombs and grief.

Was Mr. Martel ever bewildered by his tiny part in the aftermath of widespread war? What sort of mind set was necessary for this type of job? Twisted irony visited Mr. Martel, a man who managed to survive years of defusing bombs to only die on the back roads of America, his adopted country. Drunk driver. Two DUI's. Suspended license. His car was T-boned by a large pickup truck and his body burned beyond recognition by the resultant fire.

Anton Martel's parents had come to America in a sort of circuitous route, by way of Quebec. Distant relatives had given them a foothold in North America. France, for them, had become an abstraction in that way big thinkers blur the lines between the temporal and the spiritual. Too many emergency calls to remove dangerous armaments took their toll. A decision was made to not only change jobs but countries as well.

As a first generation American, Anton didn't know or care much about his ancestry. His knowledge of his parent's native language was restricted to ordering off a French menu and even that wasn't fool proof. To Anton, Europe, France in particular, was that place where they squabbled a lot and pretended by sharing a currency all of the blood letting that had gone on for centuries could be forgotten.

Although his father had not spoken much about his time with the bomb disposal unit in France Anton had read his journal written during those nerve wracking years, dutifully translated by an Internet software program. Bombs and artillery rounds tended to be unearthed mostly out in the country side, found by hard working farmers trying to bring in the crops. Buried in the fertile ground lay destruction just waiting to happen. Other times ordinance was discovered in urban settings, lying in wait in basements or uncovered by contractors hoping to build another building. Innocent people died too as they came face to face with their own fate, proving that war reaches past the confines of philosophical theory, stretching out beyond the parameters of treaties and surrenders.

Some of the journal pages almost seem to weep. He had never thought of his father as a sentimental type. He was more of a pragmatist, able to absolve his feelings from making contact. In one entry he spoke of a rural family who had lost their father. The farmer had been plowing a field and was killed by a bomb left over by the Kaiser's troops. Splintered, fragmented, flesh littered the pasture. The man, the farmer, had actually escaped death in the trench warfare of World War I to succumb to dumb fateful luck as he sat on a tractor in the waning years of his life. Almost a half decade of grinding, merciless warfare had pocked marked France with a residue of explosives lying in wait; layered on top of that was what the second World War deposited.

So his father knew grief at close range, even if he hadn't served in uniform, where they took sides to settle national arguments. He had spent a good chunk of his youth correcting his fore bearers errors, like a highly skilled garbage man cleaning up his fellow citizen's mess. Carnage had been extended by the careless and indiscriminate use of explosives.

His mother, she didn't like to think about what her husband did for a living and she certainly didn't ascribe what Mr. Martel did to any higher calling. It was a job, dangerous sure, but still just employment. Mrs. Martel was touched almost every day by the fool's errand that war wrought. Untimely explosions filled her nightmares, starring her earnest husband, a man who took his job seriously and diligently answered the calls for assistance.

All of this was in their past. The Martels had turned the page and were residents in America, now small town restaurateurs. They operated a place with a little over a half dozen tables. Thanks to Mrs. Martel's culinary acumen, they were able to court a loyal clientele, the ones who didn't mind waiting for their dinner and liked to drink lots of expensive wine. She was surprisingly adept at bringing french meals to life even though she had no formal training, establishing a novel menu that wasn't the classic haute cuisine and leaned towards the Gascon end of historical french dishes with a more pronounced provincial flavor. She steered away from utilizing espangnole type sauces and roux, replacing it with light sauces and fresh herbs, making his signature dish a modified poulet au vin blanc.

Their journey to Sedona, Arizona took them from Brittany to Paris to Quebec to New York City and finally to Sedona, Arizona. This zig zag itinerary brought them to the desert, perching just on the ramparts of the High Country. It was a trip full of pitfalls along the way, including near bankruptcy and verbal altercations with immigration officers, in broken English. Once settled in Sedona, Anton, a son, was born.

He arrived late, chronologically. After years of trying, his parents had given up hope of ever having a child. Mrs Martel was cresting forty, dangerously close for giving birth. Then they had a son, a small miracle. By this time they had just gotten past the deadline for small businesses, where their restaurant had been stood up and was functioning, doing well. Word of mouth and sterling local reviews had made them successful in only a year's time. They, as owners, were able to breathe a little easier. Then came the pregnancy, arriving as a complete surprise.

Screeching in French, reverting back to her native tongue, Anton's mother had more than a few words for her husband, who bumbled his way along, blocking out the insults coming from his wife, more nervous than he had ever been while defusing bombs. The hospital staff, accustomed to fearful parents to be, charged by the adrenaline coursing through them, were taken aback by the howling woman appearing before them at two in the morning, especially since they couldn't understand a word she was shouting at them. Anton's father babbled in a combination of French and heavily accented English, as his wife was whisked away into the delivery room. A short time later they had a son and a new American citizen.

Being Sedona born was a distinction that was simultaneously unique and derisible. The town had, over the years, gone from a desolate byway for cattle drovers and small plot farmers to "guru central," or so Anton took to calling it years later as he climbed out of his adolescent years, coming of age among the famous Red Rocks. Tourists may have come from all over the globe to take a peek at the unusual geology but he was a resident, born there, with homestead rights given to him by virtue of the time and place of his birth.

"Okay, so we are a joke," he said more times than he liked to admit, defending his birthplace reflexively, weary of hearing another quip about vortex force fields and other new age tenets that leaned on hazy wishful concepts as it relied on a suspension of incredulity.

He had gone to High School with kids who couldn't wait to escape Red Rock Country, hoping to never look back. Being born there almost scarred you, leaving a distaste for anything remotely linked to nature and the cosmos. It had been said that you can never go home again but with this particular pedigree you were forever going to be labeled differently, often accompanied by the obligatory eye roll.

Then again, it had been a relative idyllic childhood, steeped in the usual Americana most young American kids enjoy. Parades. Halloween. Little League Baseball. Football games and Basketball, even Track, which Anton participated in, even competing at State in the long jump. It was a specialized event that he inexplicably excelled at, but not enough to land any athletic scholarships. Athletics, for the most part, were foreign to him, as he leaned towards his studies and the elective side of things.

Sedona High School, as with many municipal schools across America, was considered a good school due to its zip code, the proximity to a higher socio-economic sector. The school grounds were immaculate, with the latest in scholastic trinkets, from computers to an expansive auditorium to a state of the art football facility. Physically, it was built next to Schuerman Mountain, nestled on a flat stretch of land next to 89a and a road that uncoiled down towards the Red Rocks Crossing, affording views of nearby Cathedral Rock, one of the rock formations that was a signature example of geology that made Sedona such a visual treat. "Ungraspable by words," or so, reportedly, a Pink Jeeps guide had once said to one of Anton's relatives there visiting from Canada, enjoying a jeep tour around the area like so many tourists did, sitting in the back of an open off road vehicle bouncing around the forest roads, craning their necks to take in the next pinnacle that came into sight.

As with most tourist locations, the locals had a love/hate relationship with the tourists that flocked to their town. Going on half a century before, when the town was nothing but a way station for lost hippies and descendents of the town's founders, the rock formations were interesting but so was much of the American Southwest. Hundreds of years in the past native Americans had come and gone, leaving behind decaying traces of a civilization that existed on next to nothing as they literally clung to the cliff sides. Here and there you could see tantalizing bits and pieces of ruins, showing how the mostly hunter-gatherers had attempted to cultivate crops for a meager diet, living off the Verde River and Oak Creek that flowed through the valley. Then, tragically, they were gone, vanished, leaving only an almost spectral reminder that they had even been there.

Later, other Indian tribes took root and were still present, living on two reservations at either end of the valley. Now, Sedona was the crown jewel of the Verde Valley, the center of tourism, having developed into a destination point over the decade or more. Bus loads of tourists drove through, depositing their money to keep the city's coffers full. Added to that influx were the others, appearing in their rental cars, doing the circuit, taking in the mystique that was Arizona.

Anton, native born, didn't much care for any of the town's attractions. Living in among strange and beautiful rock formations grew stale by the time he turned ten or eleven. He saw them everyday. When he reached his teens he hardly even noticed them anymore. They were the backdrop, the natural setting that so many director's of Westerns deemed perfect for their films back in Hollywood's past up until the 70's, even though the red rocks were often passed off as Texas or some other worthy West motif. Stars had actually passed through town, staying long enough to study and recite their lines before leaving and, probably, never thinking about the town much after that.

As with most people with a built in inferiority complex, people born in Sedona cringed at the geographic fact about their birth. Anton, like most of his friends, would just as well have forgotten all about the town's reputation for being a magnet for the odd and the pathetic, as they liked to call them. It was a place and locale that prompted people to start a business that furnished tours of vortexes so their clients could share in what the so called Shamanistic healer was offering; which was spiritual sustenance as provided by the opening in the earth for whatever magnetism mother nature was providing.

"It's embarrassing sometimes saying where you are from," Anton would complain to his parents, laughing uneasily. "It's bad enough telling them I'm from the fucked up State of Arizona." His mother clucked her tongue at his choice of words and he would add, "Sorry, mom, but it's true."

For his parents, it was just short of paradise. They had reoriented their lives, gambling on living in another continent and that was reward enough. Living in such a beautiful location was an excess of good fortune. They didn't understand why their son found Sedona so objectionable.

He didn't, really. Although he was, in a word, jaded about living there, he did see some merit in being so close to a natural world that offered so much. You could drive in any direction and find beauty, beauty so alluring that it was bordering on being poetical. Right outside his High School he could stand and see the crystalline sunlight dance across the rock formations, dabbled by several shades of color, as the sun made its way behind the Black Hills in the distance, finally extinguished by the ridge line, leaving behind energetic shadows. "You're retinas won't know what to do with this kind of light," his photography teacher was fond of saying, grinning.

Photography was where his interest intersected with his hometown. Landscapes jutted out everywhere begging for attention, for a lens to be trained on them. Even though some of the shots could be pedestrian, as with any stimuli that is in abundance, Sedona was visually commanding. Although the angles and sight lines had been done, from the common cell phone to the expensive SLR camera, another day would dawn, bringing different light, and there would be yet another tableau to work with.

This began to anchor Anton to Sedona. Early on in High School, after taking an elective course in Beginning Photography, he found that he had a natural aptitude for photography. "I think you have the eye for it," his teacher had told him after he showed some of his first shots in class. Further more, it gave Anton a thrill. Every time he push that shutter button it electrified his imagination. He had never felt this way about anything else in his young life. There was something in photography that gave him a spark, and with that came ambition.

He soon joined a local photographer's club and toured the galleries around Sedona seeking out what other photographer's were doing in the field. There was a rich assortment of talent in the area. True, it was an amateur's wasteland as well, stuffed with trite compositions offered by people with sophisticated digital cameras that were easy to purchase and easier to work. Modern photography had become an operator's fantasy land, where all you had to do was let the computerized guts of the camera function as a guide to subject matter manipulation. "The photographer has become a camera owner along for the ride," so said his High School teacher with a gentle snarl.

The democratization of art in general had advanced to the point that everyone was an artist, from quilt makers to scrap bookers to taggers who defaced public property. With photography, machinery had spread out the creative process to encompass almost anyone who could decipher a brief owner's manual and had the foresight to keep a battery charged. The degradation of an artist's process led to novitiates scoring on end products that only took the vaguest of input. Photos had become world currency almost, as they appeared everywhere, facilitated by the Internet and dozens of websites devoted to displaying petite master pieces of every description. The world, the globe, had shrunk so much that no place was safe from the prying eye of a lens, most locked in on the auto setting as another scene was captured and loaded onto a film card.

Yet this is where Anton wanted to go. After High School, he enrolled in college with the intention of studying art, specifically photography. His parents enjoyed his photography, having displayed plenty of his works at their small restaurant, proud as any parent might be, but they didn't see a future. Chimerical, or as his father was often heard to say, "Chimerique," as in: it was all imaginary. Being a photographer was no career. Think of something different. Study...study business. His parents were mildly flabbergasted at their son's career choice, as his mother had often hoped her son would carry on the restaurant after they retired. His father thought his son should be an accountant or maybe some clerical position with the municipal government, something with benefits.

Yet photography, in its way, saved him from himself. Many of friends succumbed to apathy and a general hometown malaise that found them bypassing college to stay in the valley, working low wage jobs as they attempted to avoid sliding into drugs and early parenthood. Futures were defined by the limits of their surroundings. Some would go off to college in Tucson or Phoenix, only to return home with no prospects, held down by large tuition loans and dwindling ideas. Others, a few, would stay on in the host cities of their colleges and pursue an uncertain future in whatever career they could muster.

The valley tended to leach away your ambition, like a siren call from the wild, bogging you down in directionless purgatory. Two of his friends, a boy and a girl, had a child by the time they were out of their teens, locked into a twilight existence of small apartments, minimum wage employment and car payments. Another friend had gotten into meth, selling and using, staying one step ahead of the cops, living in a camper attached to his truck, forever mobile and paranoid.

Truly, Anton didn't have a best friend, someone that he could point to and say they were there for him, always. His group of friends were mostly glorified acquaintances, people he shared the unusual lifestyle of a Sedona native, continually rubbing up against nature that was never very far away. Through drunken camping trips, overnighters where everyone got drunk, stoned, high as possible, he had maintained friendships. His one girl friend from High School, a person he shared intimacy with for most of his senior year, informed him one day that she was leaving after they graduated and never looking back. True to her word, she texted him the day after graduation to tell him she was in route to LA and for him to stay in touch.

He didn't. Her departure, although unexpected, proved to him that he was on his own and more than just figuratively. As his classmates struggled with the next step in their young lives, he headed off to art school in another State, leaving it all behind. Like his erstwhile girl friend, he too thought the Sedona experience was going to be receding quickly into his past. It would be something he could look back on, maybe ridicule, and never place much stock in it as part of his personal bio. It could be done.

For over five years it was. Sedona, the Red Rocks, collected dust in his memories as he launched himself into studies, intent on exploring other avenues. After college, in which he excelled at his chosen profession, landing jobs in the field even as an undergraduate, he toiled through several jobs in the field. He worked for a couple magazines and then worked free lance, building up his professional resume. Clients saw him as a photographer who could deliver their projects on time and with little complications. He also took on commissioned work, trudging around the country and Europe photographing landmarks and landscapes, even commercial projects that required he interact with preening models and uncooperative managers. It all worked to build his reputation.

The money wasn't outstanding but it was more than adequate for his needs. He dutifully sent home post cards from his job sites, along with reports on skype, telling his parents that he missed them and would be home for a visit soon, even though he had no intention of doing so. He could see his mother tear up on the lap top screen most times, while his father stood in the background and muttered in French. His life had been cleaved, sliced really, into two parts: Sedona and afterwards. It was bisectioned neatly, leaving him feeling confident about his decision making. No baggage, he would often tell himself, smirking at the thought.

Then he got an email from his mother. He had a layover in Amsterdam and was checking his mail on his phone. In a confusing jumble of French and English she had written that his father was dead--mort. The details were hazy, lost to mounting grief and hastily applied translating. His father had died, and his mother was asking him to return.

They, his parents, had adopted America fully. There would be no repatriating the body to his home country. France would be forsaken for a small tidy plot in the Verde Valley. His father had told his mother that he didn't want to be interned, laid to rest, in amongst the bombs and artillery rounds he had so assiduously tried to disarm. The European Continent no longer held sway over him in life, or in death.

Anton told his mother that he would return home as soon as possible. He reluctantly gave notice to a few clients, who in the mercenary world of commercial business shrugged and selected another photog. It was a long flight back in more ways than what geography dictated. He hadn't been back to Sedona in over three years and it felt longer, much longer. With the exception of the long distance and infrequent contact with his parents, Anton had spoke with no one from his hometown. All of his friends had evaporated, lost to memories that he seldom summoned even if he was feeling nostalgic. His past seemed to start in his first year of college and spiral out from there. New environment. New friends. New world.

After a grueling trip, trans-Atlantic, cross country flight, slow drive up I17, he had returned. As he crested the mountain, with Squaw's Peak looming on his right, he got a glimpse of the valley below, stretching out in the distance, punctuated by a blotch of red clinging to the furthest point of his view, with snow capped Mt. Humphries hugging the horizon. An almost visceral tug pulled at his thoughts, with revolving scenarios whirling through his mind. He clutched the steeling wheel to the rental car tighter, as he plunged downward, heading to the lower elevation.

Anton had forgotten how the introduction to the Verde Valley from the southern route could be almost majestic, three quarters Valhalla and one quarter ethereal. It must have been quite a sight for those early settlers to see, he thought, as he got off the interstate at the Sedona exit. A few years before his parents had bought a condo in the Village of Oak Creek, a sister town to Sedona. It too shared in the natural beauty, with rock formations pressing in on you as you traveled up and down the roads. "Impertinent eye traps," a writer wrote once, another visitor come and gone to the Red Rock Region, compelled to describe it any way he could.

He noticed that he was nervous as he drove down the street, getting closer and closer to his parent's home. As usual, there was a crush of tourists on the road, most flummoxed by the roundabouts the city had put in to literally circulate the growing traffic problem, proof that more and more people wanted to come to see what Sedona had to offer. Anton laughed to himself, realizing that the locals would see his rental car and think that he too was just another sight seer there to clog up the streets and gawk at the rocks.

No, he wasn't there for that. He wasn't even sure why he was there. His relationship with his parents had been marginalized for the last few years to the point that he didn't feel much if any obligations. He loved his parents, he assumed, but he didn't know or could pin point what he was supposed to do as a son, what was expected of him. Anton was now a semi-successful photographer with a career, a job that took him on the road often if not always, so much so that he didn't really even have a homebase anymore. He had given up his small studio apartment in Brooklyn over a year before, choosing to stay on the move, ready to travel without the need to uproot himself if need be.

His more or less gypsy lifestyle made him uniquely suited to deliver on any promises he made. Work would be done, no questions asked. Pounds of camera equipment always packed and ready to go. Hotels, pensiones, even at times hostels, provided his housing. Anton had done photo shoots in Africa, around Europe, and of course the United States. As his experience grew so did his clientele.

He hadn't looked back all that much, if at all. Nothing anchored him to Arizona. In fact, he had turned down a few assignments that would have taken him back to the Southwest because he just didn't want to return, even though Utah, Arizona, New Mexico held a certain allure for most photographers. Creatively, Anton wasn't at that stage yet. He took photos for money, mostly stifling any of his artistic impulses; not that there weren't times on location that he didn't do some street photography to document his travels. He just wasn't attuned to any gallery direction at this stage in his career.

To date, although he had been asked, he hadn't joined any photo agencies, choosing to remain on the outside, free to pick and choose what he wanted to pursue. He had been fortunate to build a reputation quickly and land enough paying accounts to be successful. Personal autonomy was important to him. Being still in his twenties, like many people of his generation, he couldn't see very far into the future.

Anton pulled into the parking lot and parked right outside his parent's condo. He had never lived there. His parents had purchased the place a year or two after he graduated from college. Before, they had rented, living in varying degrees of comfort, suspending their expectations until the restaurant had gotten off the ground. As he sat in the car looking around the complex, an almost drab community devoid of charm, he felt suddenly sad for them, his parents. Their life had been reduced to a tiny restaurant and an aging two bed room condo tucked away on a side street of a town that catered to an endless stream of sightseeing tourists.

He had a sudden memory of a time in High School when he worked at the family restaurant busing tables, something he absolutely detested. He found it embarrassing to be there picking up after people, clearing their dirty dishes as they went on their way stuffed on rich French provincial cuisine and overpriced wine from substandard vineyards in France that they knew nothing about. Oily plates with leftover residue from the dishes his mother prepared six days a week reeked of devotion, instilled with the care his mother applied to each item on the menu. It was her passion or so she would tell him, even though she knew he wasn't convinced.

Owning a restaurant was, in its way, just another job. There was nothing elevating about it, even if the world might think it was more of an avocation than ordinary employment. There was toiling to be done, daily, nightly, until the last patron pushed away from the table and paid their bill. Preparing food was arduous and, basically, unsatisfying. Having people eat your food didn't deliver any sense of fulfillment. Anton couldn't understand it and he knew his father wasn't inspired by being a small town restaurateur. It was obvious by the way he angrily counted the days receipts, muttering, sniping at his wife, as he made out the bank deposit slips at one of the back tables, while his son cleaned up the dining area.

Even though the business model was as simplistic as buying supplies, preparing meals, and delivering dinners to diners, the restaurant was often a complicated beast and tended to demand almost all of your attention. In those early years, as they struggled to gain a footing in the community's dining scene, his parents would return home after another 12, 14 hour, even longer day and silently wish they could turn back the clock and be back in France. Perseverance won out. They worked hard and established a business that afforded them a decent living, even if they still had to work long hours to attain it.

Now Anton was sitting outside their condo and his father was dead. The man had dodged death countless times back in France, disabling instant mayhem without as much as a twitch to only die behind the wheel of his car. The man, the drunk, was slated to serve a long sentence behind bars, another drunk on the highways to purge by the legal system after it was too late. Fate was unkind. He was gone and his mother remained.

He didn't want to think about any of that. His mother's future wasn't his concern or so he wanted to believe. She wasn't without resources. The restaurant had always been her brainchild. Her husband had been an unwilling partner, one who offered very little support in the effort at first and only came around when they had accrued a little bit of success. It had been a source of friction in their marriage for a while but evened out when they realized living in America sometimes meant you had to live by the vagaries of cruel inspiration.

His mother was now in her early 60's and relatively healthy. Although their work life, the restaurant, monopolized their lives, they had managed to secure a few friendships over the years. There was also family, even though they lived far away. A brother, a cousin, aunt, they were in route as well. Funeral in Sedona, time for grieving, time for vacation. No one would resent them for pausing to see the sights. Anton then realized there was another layer of potential conflict or aggravation. Relatives. Kisses. Hugs. Accepting condolences. It was all going to be an emotional onslaught of stored intent.

"Mother," he called out as he hesitantly opened the door to her condo. Immediately, he sniffed the aroma of his mother's delightful cooking, hardy but with a hint of sophistication. He had been there only once before, briefly, as he passed through town in route to LA for a photo fashion shoot he had landed through a friend in the field, a hand me down job that he gladly took. "Are you here?" He could hear French being spoken in the kitchen.

"Anton," she called out before dissolving into wavering French as she approached him and latched on for some hugs. "I thought perhaps you would not come until tomorrow."

He hugged her back and accepted a few sloppy kisses, while in the background he could see some relatives hanging back, unsure how to interrupt mother and son. Quickly he took note of the decor, smiling wanly as he noticed that there were no less than a half dozen of his photographs around the living room dating from his High School landscape days, post card shots totally devoid of any creativity. Then he noticed smoke on his mother's clothes and knew she must have returned to smoking again after having quit some years before. She would tell him it was the stressful situation and he would accept that.

In half French and half English his relatives approached and offered their condolences, pinching the English words in what they hoped sounded heartfelt. Anton accepted their kind words and made small talk, even though the closeness of the small condo and the smell of French food wafting through the air, with distant relatives invading his space, was threatening to undo his resolve to be the good, supportive son. A tiny portion of his brain was telling him to make a run for it, flee, go right back out the door, get in your rental car, and disappear.

He wasn't capable of that. I'm just not that way, he said to himself, as his mother urged him to come into the kitchen, the pitifully small room with too little counter space. How had she prepared anything in such close quarters, he wondered. She offered him some wine and told him in hushed tones, almost as if she was ashamed of the fact, that she was going to spread his father's ashes the next morning near Bell Rock. Although he found this news somehow amusing he didn't laugh but stayed mute, waiting. Did she want him to go with her? Was this a family affair, with other relatives? Anton wasn't sure of the etiquette involved. He was young; this was death and all of its accompanying protocols.

"Mom," he finally offered, "do you want me to come along with you?"

"But of course," she said with a flourish, pouring herself another glass of wine.

Out on the balcony, supplying the foreground for the spectacular view of the Red Rocks in the background, were several relatives sneaking a smoke. Even Euros were beginning to see the wisdom of not smoking inside a house. Anton was suddenly lost, unmoored, drifting. He didn't really know these people and he was discovering that he only had the vaguest connection to his mother. In the last few years he had traveled so much that he felt almost weightless, like even gravity didn't apply to him. His photo pursuits had taken on an endless journey with no beginning and, apparently, no end.

The next morning, after having slept very little in the spare bedroom, curled up on a lumpy futon that made sleeping difficult, he had an unsettling breakfast with his mother. They ate cereal, proof that his mother had abandoned some of her French ways, and avoided talking. His mother was from the country originally and possessed those taciturn Gallic ways of her youth most of the time. His father spoke even less. Anton, at times, wondered how his parents had even conducted a relationship all those years. Being expressive was totally alien to either of them.

"What time do you want to go?" he finally asked her, after she had returned from the balcony for a quick smoke.

She murmured something in French, then said, "Anytime. Doesn't matter."

He looked closely at his mother for a moment, realizing probably for the first time since he had returned home, that she was suffering silently, unable to voice all of the emotion she was enduring. Anton thought about the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, then acceptance. He wasn't sure he believed in the validity of such a model, a list of things a person might go through. If it were true, then he didn't know where or what stage his mother was fixed on. As his mother cleared the dishes from the table, he suddenly thought about himself and his reaction to the news, the reality that his father was now dead.

His father had always been distant, almost as if they had a language barrier separating them. He could remember plenty of times when his father would resort to his native tongue when dealing with him, especially if the encounter included any type of discipline. Parenting, as he recalled, had been done mostly by his mother. She had been nurturing for the most part but was quickly overtaken by her responsibilities at the restaurant, leaving Anton to raise himself. It wasn't an unknown phenomenon. American children grew up on a steady diet of electronic stimuli in lieu of parental guidance. The concept of community influence had been perverted, left to social media to pick up the slack.

The other relatives, most of them, drove out to the Bell Rock trail head in a small caravan. Anton drove with his mom in his rental car, with her holding a small urn on her lap. Plot burials were, to Anton, weird, ghoulish affairs, with expensive coffins and by the numbers eulogies offered by indifferent clergy; but this type of farewell to the dead was another matter in itself. His father's ashes had been deposited into a small metal contraption with ornamental designs etched into the side. Six months before he had been on location photographing a burial ceremony in India where they burned the body of the deceased on a large pyre, leaving a sickening smell to linger in the air. The human race hasn't progressed very far with the whole death thing, he thought, as he drove up 179 in route to an event in his life that he knew was going to leave some residue somewhere in his memory.

At the trail head, along with a dozen or so wide eyed tourists, Anton gathered up his relatives for the short hike up to the approach to Bell Rock climb. He thought for a moment, trying to remember the last time he had been there. As a native of Sedona, he long ago gave up on going to the local tourist attractions. Nature's physical beauty on display got as stale as anything else.

Thinking, he remembered going to a few drinking parties held on one of the first rock shelves leading up to the giant, iconic rock formation. They had gotten drunk and defaced some of the new ager's prayer circle rock formations laid out on the ground to better facilitate their entry into whatever world it was they were hoping to get to. They were teenagers, typically callous towards other ideas and world views. Everybody wanted something from Sedona, some clue, some entryway to a better understanding, so said his former girl friend, the one who dumped him and left for LA. Recently, enterprising yoga instructors had taken to holding their classes on some of the rock ledges overlooking the parking lot below, proof that spiritual pursuits and commerce could be intertwined.

He herded everyone up the trail, listening to them pass glowing comments about the view back and forth, in French. On some vacant slick rock he turned northward and skirted along a ledge away from the trail, hoping that the tourists wouldn't think he was some kind of tour guide. When he had gotten far enough away from the main trail he stopped and motioned for everyone to gather around.

"This spot okay, mom?" he asked, glancing around to see if anyone could hear them, not knowing whether or not the Rangers would permit them to do what they were about to do. He was sure there must be some regulations against depositing human remains all over a forest service site.

One of his uncles unexpectedly stepped forward to offer a few words. He was related on Anton's father's side, having traveled from Brittany, his first time out of France. In a stern voice, strong and incisive, he spoke a prayer first then added some personal tributes to his brother. After, he sobbed a little and stepped back. Next came a woman from his mother's side of the family, who spoke in a whisper but still managed to draw a curt laugh from all those gathered when she told a brief humorous story about his father back when he was younger.

Being in French, Anton tuned it out, as he gazed up at Bell Rock looming over them. It had been one of the first things he photographed back in High School, proudly displaying it to his photography teacher, who nodded politely as he gave him a disinterested look. The subject matter was just another example of how the world had shrunk, another victim of globalization and cheap cameras like the ubiquitous cell phone ones. It had almost come to that, with everything having been photographed, items of note had been left to nothing but an example of a crass cliche. The slight had been a blow to his developing ego but he soon saw what his teacher was hinting at by his reaction, the prosaic quality that a surplus of photos inherently instilled in a shot.

"Anton...Anton, do you wish to say anything?" his mother wanted to know.

He returned his attention to the makeshift funeral proceedings and said, "I don't think so." What can I say? he asked himself. My father was dead. The man had survived a harrowing career, uprooted his life, then died on a two lane road in the middle of nowhere. It was expressionistic. No, it was absurdist. Fatalism. Humorless humor?

Momentarily disappointed, his mother stepped to the ledge and raised the urn in front of her, saying, "It is time." She drifted off into French in a tearful voice, as she poured out the ashes.

Behind them, several tourists had stopped on a higher ledge to take note of the strange ceremony. Above, hundreds of feet, a single file of tourists, a group from somewhere back East, was scrambling up the steep trail. The climb could take your breath away, before you reached the summit and caught your first glimpse of the surrounding crenellated rock formations, a 360 panorama. On more than a few occasions in the past tourists had to be rescued from some of the ledges high up on the rock formation. It was deceptively easy to scale the slick rock until which point you were hundreds of feet up with nowhere to go.

Several of his relatives had expressed interest in climbing up the trail. He knew his mother wouldn't go. His parents never hiked, never took advantage of the natural surroundings. They were like people who live next to the Vatican and are Jewish, he remembers a friend from High School telling him, laughing.

Suddenly, Anton had the desire to go to the top. Most the trail wasn't difficult. He would take one of his cameras along, fire off a few shots, maybe even of his relatives. It was touristy completing the hike but he thought it might be something that would purge his thoughts. Cathartic, he told himself, shaking his head. The new age dummies were always using the vortexes to purify something. Maybe I am in the denial stage, he thought, smiling to himself.

Only two relatives wanted to attempt the climb, so the remainder returned to the condo. He gave his mother a quick hug and she got into another car, still clutching the empty urn. He wanted to tell her that he had skipped ahead to the acceptance stage, fastforwarding through the questionable steps of anger and depression, not knowing what bargaining even meant. The anger part was easy. Some drunken bastard had killed his father and not for the fact that he was underinsured and practically penniless, Anton would have probably sued the man. Depression, who had time for that? The only bargaining he was going to be doing was how to negotiate his way out of Sedona with a mother now a widow and on her own. As a survivor you had little choice most times but to accept it.

Two of his mother's relatives from Quebec made the climb, huffing and puffing behind him as if they might expire any minute; but they gamely hiked on. They stopped often to marvel at the sight, while Anton snapped off a few photos, posing them expertly with various rock formations as backdrop. They passed several tourists on their way down, all beaming from their accomplishment. Then they two were as high as they wanted to safely climb, looking out at Sedona and the surrounding area. Impossibly large houses dotted the hillsides and on top of small mesas in one direction, while in the other a stretch of unspoiled land glowed in the morning sun. Even though Sedona was threatened by the encroaching real estate, it still remained beautiful.

"This is very special," one of his relatives announced in her stilted English, turning to her husband to add something in French.

"Yeah, I guess it is," he agreed, sweeping his lens around the horizon. "I've forgotten just how pretty it is," he added more to himself than to them. He could actually remember taking those first pictures and seeing them come up on the computer monitor. It had almost a visceral kick to it, he thought. Now, hundreds of film cards later, here he was again. Full circle, almost.

Most of the relatives were leaving the next day, in route back home. He almost wished they had had an Irish type wake, with plenty of drinking and merriment, escorting the departed on his way with a party. The French were mostly introspective, with a long history of gazing inwards more than the opposite. It was true that as much as national traits went, France took itself too seriously, unable to accept what rung of the world ladder they were perched on.

Back at the condo a somber silence settled on the condo, while his mother stood out on the balcony, smoking, and watching the sun recede in the West, casting off a golden glow across the Red Rocks. Anton lived for those few hours in a day when the light was optimal, just right for his lens. Early morning, and late afternoon, he had lived by that for over half a decade or more. It ruled his time management more than anything else.

A relative was asking him about his travels in broken English and he was trying to comply with his queries as best he could, stumbling along through the maze of accented language and fractured syntax. Normally, as it went, he was good at communicating on the edges of language because he traveled so much, but now, under these circumstances, he found that he couldn't concentrate. Another relative was trying to interpret, also adding his own questions about: Sudan...Yemen...Turkey...and other GPS hotspots around the earth. Suddenly, Anton wished he had booked a hotel room, somewhere he could politely retreat to for some alone time.

A few days later they would be gone. What would become of his mother? There had been several ideas floated from the relatives. Quebec? Too cold, and she had never embraced the second hand version of France. France, home, but it too wasn't appealing at this juncture in her life. It was where she met her husband, and held a connection that had long ago been frayed by time and distance. Now, her home country seemed alien almost, where memories had long ago been uprooted and left to wither away. America, her adopted home, wasn't acceptable either because of the fresh wound that she knew was going to be slow to heal.

She's in limbo, Anton thought. Her restaurant, although successful, didn't supply any impetus to stay, if she was being honest with herself. The condo might as well have been a glorified time share for all she cared about it. Sedona, and its natural surroundings, weren't a draw either. He didn't want to think about himself or how he fit into the equation. He was her only child but, oddly, that didn't seem relevant. It was almost as if his parents had been instructed to have a child out of governmental fealty, a municipal responsibility that once completed ends at a future specified date. Like in a second tier SyFy movie or something, he thought, laughing at the thought.

"I am not sure, Anton, what I am to do with the restaurant," his mother said to him one morning while they were deciding what to do for the day.

"Do?" he muttered, now, even after a few days under the same roof with his mother, unable to feel at ease around her.

"Yes, am I to close it?" she asked, staring directly at her son, waiting for his response.

Anton thought for a moment, then said, "You can do what you want with it, mom." He knew his answer was weak but he couldn't think what to say. It was her livelihood, her life. "How are you set for money? I mean did you and dad have any money saved up or anything? Stocks? Annuities? Anything like that?" Finances were totally foreign to him. After all, he lived practically from photo shoot to photo shoot, budgeting his way to solvency by being ultra cheap.

She stared out the window for a moment, then replied, "I think so. Your father do the money business." He heard her say something in French then turn to him and announce: "I believe the restaurant for me is finished...truly. I don't think I can do it now."

"Okay," Anton said in a low voice, with visions of him having to take care of his mother from now until forever. "You could go back to France. Maybe. Uncle--"

"No," she declared, holding up her hand in a stopping motion for emphasis, "France is behind. I do not want to go there again. I can not."

"I hear you," he said, making a face. "I guess Canada is out too, right?" She nodded yes. "How about some other place in the States. New York?" he offered hopefully. "Vibrant city. Lots to do. Good food."

His mother shot him a stern look and then said, "Are we being serious? I do not believe so. I...I must find a place...something to do. It is so difficult without your father. Everything is empty for me." She added a few words in French then said, "I do not want you to stay here. You have your life. I know this. I wish for you to continue with your career."

Alright, career advice from my mom, he thought, trying not to make a face. He would liked to have reached for some concrete rationalizations but couldn't latch onto any for the moment. For the most part, his life was totally devoid of emotional upheavals. His love life centered on several fluid relationships in a couple different cities in Europe. He came. He went. His female companions stayed in touch and, mostly, were available when he passed through London or Amsterdam. Life and all of its complicated components have, to date, been minimalized.

His parents, for the most part, had been in absentia. There were no siblings. Past friends had been over time expunged almost completely, except for the occasional email or text. New friends centered around his work and were just a step up from acquaintances. His life was constantly in flux so it made for perpetual adjustments, so he kept an open glide path to where ever and whatever direction he wanted to go.

In summation, he thought, I don't have time for my mom, or, more realistically, any mom. What am I supposed to do? rang in his thoughts as he exclaimed before he knew it: "I plan on staying here for awhile...along as it takes." This sounded too presumptuous so he added, "If you need me around."

She glanced at him, then said she was going out on the balcony for a smoke. He could see her through the glass door leaning against the railing. There had been no response to his comment, nothing. Perhaps his mother was shutting down, eliminating outside stimuli in order to cope. That happens, right? he asked himself, wondering if he could be of any help.

Chapter 3 Carlos Ortega: 2nd Victim

He had just turned twenty-one. Short. Slender. A hint of a mustache was appearing on his face. For him, living in the Verde Valley was like doing penance. His mother, five years before, had brought him there from Phoenix in an attempt to remove her only son from the gangland environment in the capital city. Her son was drifting away, becoming another lost kid, unable to resist the allure of teenage rebellion and a subculture of violence and ethnic identity.

Several of his friends had been incarcerated and one had died after getting into an altercation with a rival gang member. It wasn't uncommon, and that was the immediate problem. Her husband had been deported, caught in a round up of suspected illegal aliens by the local police. She, along with her two children, were American born. Her options had been reduced.

A phone call to a relative, her aunt, led to her migration north, to Cottonwood. Packing her small car until there was no more room left anywhere, she drove up I17 with the hope that she could start a new life and save her son. It was a gamble she was willing to take, uprooting her family, quitting her job.

"Mom, are you crazy?" her son had almost shouted out when he heard what his mother was planning.

"Carlos, I think is best for all of us," his mother told him, latching onto his arm, hoping to reinforce her decision in his eyes.

"Not gonna happen...I got friends here," he protested, while his younger sister looked on, a quiet spectator to the coming change in their lives. "No fucking way."

"Carlos...you have to move with me," she declared, trying to control her anger. "You are only sixteen--"

"I'm old enough," he exclaimed, pulling away from his mother's grasp. "I can take care of myself. Papi was out on his own when he was my age."

"He came here illegally, Carlos. He had no choice," she stated, staring at her son, trying to sound firm, leaving her son with no other options. "We have a place to go to up there. I...I already have a job lined up. We are going."

The transition was difficult and not without family turmoil. Twice, Carlos returned to Phoenix without his mother's permission, only to be brought back by a disapproving relative. Eventually, after a year of intermittent school attendance, Carlos abandoned his High School and spent time with an older friend picking up day jobs for cut wages. He would stand out in front of a trailer park on 89A with the other transient workers waiting for the stray employer who needed cheap labor to stop and offer menial jobs. He was young and the cash infusion after several hours work was adequate for his needs.

His mother saw less and less of him after two years time, as she concentrated on her daughter and her new job working at a local hotel in housekeeping. Carlos would appear on a sporadic basis, always high, intent on reconnecting with his family when he needed a temporary place to stay or some money. He was her son in name only now and she hardly recognized him most times. A meth habit had turned him into a wraith like character, with long unwashed hair and vacant eyes. He tended to babble most of the time, directing his ire at unknown people and the police. She had become more and more frightened of her son and before long refused to let him in her home, fearing that he would harm her or her daughter.

When she received the news she hadn't seen her son for almost a year, when he had appeared at the hotel where she worked and caused a scene. She had almost lost her job after he went on a tirade and assaulted her supervisor, who had stepped in to remove him from the premises. The police were called but by the time they arrived Carlos had disappeared down the street, running, like a criminal fleeing the scene of a crime.

Carlos had taken to living under a bridge on SR260, close enough to town to commit petty crimes and far enough away to escape detection. Theft kept him going, supplying enough cash for him to maintain his habit. He lived in a makeshift hut he had fashioned out of discarded wood he found around FR261 and lit fires at night to keep warm during the winter. Months of subsistence living had left him emaciated, wild eyed, and distrustful. His sole friend, a man from California, a drifter, transient, had been driven away by Carlos' increasingly erratic behavior, often marked by violent outbursts and physical threats.

They had met at the Walmart in town, both nursing a cheap cup of coffee as they stood out front watching the customers coming and going. Out in the parking lot they could see several RV's parked at the far end of the parking lot, availing themselves of the generous Walmart policy that permitted them to use the parking lot for stop overs. Carlos saw opportunity, as he watched the recreation vehicles closely, monitoring the owners comings and goings, devising a plan in his mind how he was going to break in and steal whatever was useful for his needs. As soon as he saw one of the owners head into the store he was going to make a move.

Soon the two of them were working as a team, with one of them doing the B and E, as the other one stood look out for any returning owners or police. In tandem, they stole enough personal property to sell for cash. At times, when they were lucky, they even found a stash of money hidden away, along with credit cards. It was mostly small time larceny, which they quickly enough traded for drugs. Meth was a scourge of the valley, from users to enterprising "cooks" blending up new batches in meth labs secreted all around the area.

Then there had been the squabble between them, which quickly escalated into a fight, with Carlos wielding a hunting knife he had stolen from one of the RV's. He seldom went anywhere without it, keeping it strapped to his leg under his pants. His paranoia had reached a critical stage and he didn't even like anyone to stand behind him. During the fight he had sliced his friend and accomplice two times, right across the arms, as they maneuvered around each other, lost to the cascading effects of another meth high, adrenaline charged, unable to reason or separate their reality from what they were experiencing.

In the end, his friend and drug comrade fled. Carlos watched him run away, stumbling, as he climbed the steep embankment, heading for the highway. In his ears he could hear the cars passing overhead, leaving a strumming chorus of churning tires, as he mocked his friend for being a coward. Then he was alone, with just the sounds of traffic coursing by incessantly, coming and going, southeast to Camp Verde, northeast to Cottonwood, a constant opera of spinning wheels that resounded in his ears. He wasn't aware of his mounting madness as it encroached on his thoughts.

A couple riding double on an ATV found his body, or what was left of it. They had been off road riding, trundling through a sandy wash, when she caught a glimpse of Carlos camp perched up on the underside of the bridge. Curious, she had convinced her boy friend to stop to take a look. They hadn't gone very far after climbing off the ATV when they discovered the first body part, an arm, with the hand gnawed completely off.

"Let's call the cops," she suggested, scared, now sorry that she had even come up with the idea to stop and explore the camp.

"You call them...if we have a signal down here," her boy friend told her. "I'm going up to take a look."

"No, let the cops do that," she insisted, punching 911 in her cell phone.

Her boy friend ignored her and proceeded up the steep slope, stopping again about half the way up. He shouted down to her: "I found the hand or what's left of it."

"Honey, come back down. Wait for the cops!" she shouted out nervously. "Who knows what's up there. You hear me?"

He continued up until he crested the concrete lip and got his first glimpse of Carlos' camp. Smoke was still rising from his campfire and there was a radio playing Country music from the local station in Cottonwood. He could see it was one of those emergency radios campers use, the ones with a multiple bandwidths and a crank for powering up the radio when the batteries run out.

"Pretty weird," he called down to his girl friend. "Looks like somebody's been living up here for awhile."

"What?" his girl friend called back.

In the distance they could hear a police siren slowly making its way down 260, with the noise undulating up and through the ravines and washes. He stepped a little bit closer, cautious, to take a better look. Now he could see a torn sleeping bag, an expensive one, laying on the ground by a tiny hut. Empty cans were discarded all around the camp. Looking down, he saw several cans of unopened Ensure stacked neatly by the hut. Broken glass was everywhere and he could see several shards with labels that appeared to be liquor.

The siren had stopped on the road above them and he looked up to see a policeman peering over the railing. He waved at him then pointed at the camp. The policeman shouted for him not to touch anything, motioning for him to move away. Backing up, he stumbled over something and looked down to see a large hunting knife with blood caked on the blade.

"There's a fucking bloody knife on the ground here!" he shouted out, glancing first at his girl friend and then back up at the approaching policeman, who was trying to descend from the roadway without falling.

"Leave it!" the policeman shouted.

"No problem," he called out, forcing a laugh. "You got some heavy shit here."

The policeman, officer Lundin from the Cottonwood Police Department, scrambled over the last bit of loose dirt and reached the leveled off parcel of land under the bridge. He glanced around the area, keeping one hand on his hand gun. "Yavapai Sheriff's Office will be here in a minute...but I have to make sure everything stays intact. Right?"

"I hear you there," he said, glancing at his girl friend, who was motioning for him to come back down. "Listen, there's an arm down there and a hand right over there...and this big ass knife too." He pointed down at the ground. 'Somebody's been busy slicing and dicing."

Officer Lundin didn't say anything as he moved closer to the campsite, muttering to himself about transients as he went. Just the week before had rousted out five or six transients who had been camping within the town's limits. Every year many of the homeless in Phoenix would migrate north to escape the heat down there. Most times they stayed out of sight but inevitably some would trespass on private property or make a nuisance of themselves. With the slowly recovering economy there seemed to be a larger influx every season.

"You didn't see anybody around did you?" the cop wanted to know, still keeping his hand on his gun.

"Nobody," he replied. "Listen, I'm gonna go back down to my ATV...my girl friend's getting pretty nervous."

"Okay, but don't leave yet," Officer Lundin told him. "Somebody is going to have to talk to you. Right?"

He nodded and slowly inched his way back down to the wash. Officer Lundin then removed his gun from the holster and took a peek inside the small hut. He could smell the combined odor of sweat, urine, and burned wood, all blending to make him almost gag. Just inside the door to the hut, where the makeshift door had evidently been pulled off its hinges, he saw a bloody bandana. Amazingly, he recognized it as belonging to a man he had arrested for being a public nuisance two days before. He had been standing in front of Fry's supermarket shouting at the shoppers, being aggressive towards several of the employees who tried to make him leave the property.

Next to the hut he found a shoe, a new hiking boot with the toes cut out. He remembered the man had been wearing those boots. He had cut out the toes because they were a size too small for him, said he liked to air out his feet when he walked. He had known that he probably stole them but it was impossible to trace who he had stolen them from. Nailed to the outside of one wall there was a poster of a young female pop singer. It was faded and wrinkled from the elements. Without realizing, Officer Lundin chuckled a little then searched on the other side of the camp.

Other sirens were blaring down the highway now, coming closer and closer. Officer Lundin's radio crackled and he checked in with dispatch, telling the outlines of what he had found. Murder mystery, he told himself after he got off the radio, walking over to peer up at the road, hoping to see his county counterparts arriving on the scene. Your jurisdiction, have fun with this, he thought, finally seeing a Sheriff's deputy stick his head over the railing.

A half hour later there was a full on investigation underway, with several police departments on the scene. A grid search was organized, fanning out in all directions to look for any signs of a body. "Only body parts so far," a deputy said into his hand held radio, as he then told a few of the others to cover a different area. A detective interviewed the couple on the ATV then released them after he took down their information.

"Judging by the meth pipes over there it looks drug related somehow, like maybe two people might have been fighting over the meth and it got bad, real bad," another detective announced to one of the deputies. "I mean look at this place. It's a shithole...with nothing but garbage and stench. How do people live like this?"

"Check this out!" one of the officers called out, pointing down at the ground. The detective hurried over to where he was pointing and immediately saw another body part, a half eaten leg.

"What the fuck," the detective exclaimed, kneeling down to take a closer look. "This is some bestial shit going on here. Please tell me somebody didn't chop this guy up."

"Cannibalism?" the officer said in almost a whisper.

The detective ignored him and stood back up. There was another shout from another police officer and he walked over to where a small group of them had gathered. The first thing he saw was a bloodied man's torso and then he noticed the head, the face, where he could see large gaping claws marks. One eye had been dislodged and was dangling downwards. The nose had been half chewed off. The remaining leg was intact except for the foot, which was missing entirely. Most of the clothes had been stripped away and a large portion of his organs were missing, leaving behind a hollowed out abdomen.

"I'm gonna lose it," an officer exclaimed, stepping away to vomit.

"Smells pretty ripe," another officer said, almost grinning.

"Tape off the area...now," the detective ordered, looking away for a moment, turning his head away from the pervasive odor. "This is some fucking crime scene," he said to himself, getting on the radio to call his partner up from the wash area.

Carlos Ortega, the next victim, died trying to defend himself with a knife he had pilfered from a RV in the Walmart parking lot. Taken by surprise. Ambushed. Bitten over twenty times. Flesh stripped away as a death grip was applied to the back of his neck, with fangs puncturing his windpipe and large claws penetrating his chest and stomach. The blood on the hunting knife was analyzed and came back feline.

A large predator had entered his camp, his home, and inflicted bodily harm until he was dead. His corpse was dismembered, partially eaten, leaving body parts scattered around the embankment. That was in the report compiled by Dr. Rachel Winters, the biologist called in by the ME. It was the second case of cat on human attack, resulting in death. The decedents had been killed and partially eaten. A pattern was emerging.

"My report doesn't touch on everything," Dr. Winters told the ME over the phone after her report had been entered into the county record. "You have a problem up there in Yavapai, I guess you might say. A large predator has jumped species and--I'm not trying to be flippant here--likes what it tastes like. It's not totally unusual but...well...I hesitate to say it is a rogue mountain lion but it's pretty close. You know, like over in Africa when you get a lion that suddenly likes to feed on people instead of...of wildebeasts. Kind of like that. I'm not sure if it is the same lion for sure, the same one that killed that little girl but it sure looks like it to me. The kill zone is well within a cat's hunting range. Do you want me to come up there? To check out things?"

Chapter 4 Dr Rachel Winters: Biologist

She was hoping she would be asked to travel north to the Verde Valley. Her love/hate relationship with Phoenix was beginning to fray around the edges. Her teaching position at ASU was a comfortable position but it left her with too much time spent in the city of the sun and not in the field, where she liked to continue her studies. Rachel had come to Arizona to study the wolf population in the White Mountains region and to finish her doctorate at the university. It had been a dream of hers to study in Arizona since she was a small girl back East, in Upstate New York; she had always been fascinated by the desert fauna.

Growing up in the Adirondacks she had spent her childhood mostly outdoors, tagging along with her father on week long camping trips ever since she was in her early teens. He had given her an appreciation of nature and inadvertently trained her for what she would become in later years. After undergraduate studies at a state school in Florida, where she had gone to study the near extinct Panther sub-species, she had taken her masters at a college in Colorado so she could research the possibility of the return of the Lynx to the Rocky Mountains, before moving on to the valley of the sun. Seeking out almost ghost like animals had become her forte.

Now, age twenty-nine, she was trying to set up grants to spend blocks of time near the Mexican border in pursuit of the elusive Leopard that had been infrequently sighted in the Arizonan ecosystem recently. Working as a professor was a necessary chore to keep her in the discipline and to build up credibility. As a woman, an anomaly in the biology field, she was constantly striving to stay ahead of her peers and her colleagues. It left her with a chip on her shoulder some of the time, as if she always had something to prove; but she had grown accustomed to being an outsider.

As a biologist she spent hundreds of hours out in the wilderness, alone, taking samples, compiling data for her research. She was used to being on her own in the wilderness. Some of her friends, the ones not in her field, thought she was intrepid but careless, unmindful of what being isolated out in the woods could mean if things went wrong. She lost count of how many times they wanted to know whether or not she was afraid of being attacked by a bear. Seldom did she tell them that she had never even seen a bear in all her times spent in the forest, that she was more worried about mosquitoes.

Being asked to come to Yavapai was a godsend for her. It would mean that she could temporarily put her teaching duties on hold and leave Phoenix in an official capacity and not have to argue with the department head about her absence. Teaching disinterested undergraduates about biology was her cross to bear but she still hadn't adjusted to the fact that her livelihood depended on it. Almost gleefully, she called up her immediate supervisor and told him the news, trying to keep her gloating under control. He was skeptical at first then when she gave him the phone number of the Yavapai County coroner's office he relented and she was on her way, even if it was only for a week.

She packed up her aging Subaru, the one with the dented and rusting fenders, zooming around her small apartment in Chandler collecting the gear she thought she might need, all in an attempt to beat the weekend traffic she knew would be exiting Phoenix in route to Flagstaff. A faded, musty backpack tent was thrown in the back of the car, the one she had been using for going on almost ten years, even with the broken zipper in the zipup door. Opening and closing drawers, she finally found the small solar panel she used to power up her lap top when she was in the field. Fortunately she had some fresh batteries for her GPS handheld unit, along with a new magnum flashlight she had purchased recently after she lost her old one the last time she moved. Cell phone. Boots. Convertible pants. Rain shell. Small one burner stove. Extra clothes. Hat. Insect repellant. She stuffed it all in her car and headed up I17.

Rachel also brought along her dog, Mattie, a mutt bitch she had found along side Interstate 10 the first week she was in Arizona. Being a stray, the dog was wary of the woman who stopped her car on the side of the highway to offer assistance. After enticing her towards her car with some cookies they seemed to immediately bond. Now, over a year later, they were inseparable. The dog turned out to be an invaluable companion on the trail, loyal and always alert. She took to discipline easily and never intruded on Rachel's research. They hiked miles together and shared the small backpack tent at night. With a small strap on doggie pack, Mattie even carried some supplies they needed for the weeks on end bivouac that was necessary in order to carry out Rachel's research.

She had made arrangements first to meet the lead detective at the crime scene. Rachel wasn't looking forward to dealing with another wisecracking policeman, one of the many who didn't understand why a biologist was nosing around in their territory, especially a young woman. Previously, with the young girl from Cornville, she hadn't had to deal with them one on one all that much, but mostly through the ME's office. She expected there would be friction and was determined to maintain a professional attitude no matter what she encountered.

As she drove down 260 she could see the police car parked on the side of the road in the opposite direction. She turned around at the first stop light and backtracked then pulled up behind the police sedan. Mattie barked and whined for a moment, but she told her to stay in the car and she quieted down. Pausing, she scanned the area, noticing the chaparral features of the valley floor, perfect for any number of species to hunt.

Carefully, she made her way down to the site, spotting the detective standing off to the side, just under the bridge talking on his cell phone. "She's here," he heard him say as she was walking up. He hung up and offered his hand, smiling. They exchanged greetings.

"Might as well start here, I guess," he said, motioning for her to follow him.

"Okay," she said, looking around the messy campsite, getting her first whiff of an odor she hoped she would soon forget, now marinating in the mid day sun.

The detective described what they thought happened, going through the scenario in a detached, clinical voice. Pointing here and there, he paused several times for his information to sink in. Rachel didn't say much, trying to survey the scene for herself and not be influenced by any outside theories.

"At first we thought it might have been a drug thing gone bad--real damn bad," he stated, exhaling deeply, as if to say you have no idea what some of these people are capable of. "Methheads...well it can be ugly sometimes."

She nodded and pretended that she knew what he might be referring to, then said, "Seen a lot, I guess."

He shrugged then continued, saying, "But the crime scene seemed screwy to us. I mean the body parts...you know...what was up with that? Slice and dice...two transients, maybe three. Not much of a party."

She forced a smile and said, "And what changed for you?

"Changed? Oh, you mean with the methhead angle? Well, nobody makes bite marks like that that I know." He laughed, then quickly turned serious again. "I don't know whether or not you've seen the crime scene photos yet but...hey...gruesome shit."

"I saw them," she said, letting him know that she was up to speed at least on that aspect of the open case.

"Then we--me and my partner--thought and I know this sounds crazy but we were thinking it might be an escaped lion from Out Of Africa, which is right over that way." He pointed off in a southwest direction. "It could happen. I mean back East somewhere some wild animals got out and created havoc in a small town. I remember hearing something about that. They have wild animals over at that place, I think. Lion jumps the fence or finds a hole in it then cruises right over here and has lunch. Who knows?"

"Check with the game park thing?" she asked, looking around the camp site.

"Yeah, they said they didn't have any escaped animals," he said almost dejectedly. "Back to square one."

"Well, detective, I've seen the photos--like I said--and it was a wild animal that perpetuated this," she informed him, stopping a moment to bend down and examine a tract of dirt.

"Really, good to know I guess," the detective muttered, as his cell phone rang. He checked who was calling and ignored it.

"Large cat, but not an African lion," she told him, pointing at the faint spore of a mountain lion etched in the dirt, right next to a fading candy bar wrapper. "Carlos Ortega probably never had a chance. Judging by these prints and the distance to that hut, the cougar leaped off of this embankment and surprised the victim. Didn't see it coming. Classic ambush technique. Higher ground. Unsuspecting prey. Bam. It's done."

The detective stared at her, slack jawed for a moment, then exclaimed: "Who are you?" He laughed and added, "Show me."

Rachel re-enacted the attack, walking up the embankment a little distance, mimicking what a large cat would do. "Carlos probably came out of the little hut, maybe to cook something on the fire or whatever. He would have been standing right about here." She walked down to a spot next to the campfire and stood facing the opposite direction. "I can only imagine the last thing he was thinking about at the time was being attacked by a mountain lion. Probably high, drunk, whatever, he stands here unsuspecting. The cat poised to launch his attack, leaps--and boy can they leap--lands right on his upper back. Now poor Carlos has a hundred and fifty, maybe more judging by those prints, cat on his back--"

"Fuck no," the detective interjected, immediately apologizing.

"Afraid so, and now Carlos is in a fight for his life. Simple as that. The cat has the back of his neck in his jaws and his claws are digging in. Must have felt like he was hit by a flying truck."

"Flying truck," the detective repeated, shaking his head. "Poor bastard."

"Yeah, he staggers over this way, fumbling for the knife that is strapped to his leg I believe. The cougar is digging in now, with his incisors, right to the juggler area. Probably surprised by the response he is getting. This isn't a docile deer going down easily. Claws are scratching away. They look like they fell to the ground right about here, I think. Then came some scrambling. By the look of the marks on his neck at one point they came face to face. Carlos would have seen what attacked him as he looked right into the gaping jaws of the cat."

"Holy shit," the detective mumbled.

"That's probably when he stabbed at the cougar, catching him maybe in the shoulder area," she went on to describe the event, moving to the next stage of the attack. "Over here it looks like they might have gotten some sort of separation for a moment because you can see the blood stains and Carlos' foot prints. The mountain lion must have then lunged at him again and taken him right down here. You can still see the impression in the dirt. It was right about now that it was over for Carlos. The bite marks show that his face was practically ripped off at this juncture. He was probably bleeding out anyway."

"I can't believe he got a chance to use his knife," the detective exclaimed, shaking his head.

"I've seen the knife," she stated, raising her eyebrows. "Big knife, unfortunately it was too late at that point. The mountain lion already had the upper hand. Carlos did fight back and did manage to nick up the lion some. There was blood and some tissue on the blade of the knife. I'm sure that surprised the cat a little bit. Cat's, needless to say, aren't used to deer or other prey inflicting wounds on them."

"We've got a killer cat on the loose, great," the detective spat out, throwing his hands up.

"Looks like it," she said, then quickly added, "but we can't be sure just yet."

"Why not?" he protested.

"I have to finish with the labs, you know, comparing the two attacks," she explained. "At any rate, it doesn't look good. Obviously you have two mortalities where a cat was involved. Not good. I mean it can't look good for the tourist industry around here to have people being killed by the wildlife. I can only imagine the media are going to be jumping all over this again--like last time."

"Maybe not," the detective said, checking his ringing cell phone again and ignoring it. "Nobody cares about some methhead getting offed out in the woods. Do they? You had a missing girl last time then...you know what I mean. Anyway, two attacks and so close together. Like a bad movie."

"I have to finish up here then head back down to Prescott to check in with the ME again," she told him, taking out her camera to take some photographs of the prints and other evidence of a mountain lion's presence.

"What are we supposed to do?" the detective asked more to himself than to her.

"Hunters come to mind," she said trying not to sound sarcastic.

"We got that," he announced, smiling. "We can blanket this whole valley with trigger happy idiots."

"Could become a zoo out here," she warned him, bending down to get a better angle for her photo.

"Any suggestions?"

"I don't kill wildlife, I just study them," she explained, already thinking of what her next move was going to be. It was definitive now. There was a large, male mountain lion preying on humans and his hunting tactics were evolving, matching up with the habits of his prey.

"I gotta go. You gonna be okay out here alone?" the detective asked, concerned. "I can stay around if I have to."

She looked up at him and replied, "No, go on. I'll be okay here."

"Gotta a gun?" the detective wanted to know.

She laughed and said she didn't, telling him that her job was to blend in with the surroundings and leave no trace. He scoffed at that and told her she might want to think about buying one. Then he climbed back up the embankment.

It was quiet at the campsite, the only noise coming from passing cars on the road above, a muffled tread of sound that dissipated quickly in the southwest breeze. Rachel walked around the campsite, trying to get a feel for what living there was like. The layout was simple of course, with just the hut and a fire ring. Carlos had added little touches here and there, something to make it seem like permanency. On a slanted shelf nailed up on the outside of the hut he had placed a small mirror and his toothbrush, along with a Saint Christopher medal dangling from a nail. Several tattered magazines were strewn on the ground, next to an old, stained chair he must have found and somehow dragged back to the site. She imagined him sitting there reading month old magazines and getting drunk or high.

A pair of mismatching flip-flops were aligned by the wall just inside the hut and she could see a plastic milk crate turned upside down acting as a bedside table. A paperback book rested there, in Spanish. Pages had been torn out, probably to light a fire. Carlos had made a few more shelves inside the hut to store his food. Two cans of chili beans, Walmart brand, were stacked there, along with a box of crackers, still unopened. A can opener hung from a nail next to the shelves.

There was a small metal box in the far corner and she reluctantly ducked in the hut to take a look at it. The smell inside was unbearable and she quickly exited, standing a few feet away to take in some clean air. Inside the metal box, with the broken latch, was Carlos' drug paraphernalia. The police hadn't bothered to even bag it for evidence. She saw two glass pipes, burnt black from use, along with some rolling papers.

Carlos had lived there, day to day, never knowing where his next high was coming from. He had become a one man crime spree, loitering around stores, always on the look out for something to steal. At night, he would retreat to his perch under the bridge, start a fire, get high, drunk, and do it all over again. His existence had been reduced to elementary functions.

He smelled. He was wasting away. He had severed all ties with not only his family but with any social contract. Carlos had become a hunter/gatherer, living from small emergency to the next. Food had been pushed down the list, after attaining drugs. In time, he probably would have perished out there in his tiny, solitary settlement. Maybe died from hypothermia. Overdose. Disease.

Carlos Ortega had died from an animal attack, torn to pieces by a mountain lion. Rachel thought about that for a moment. Not my bailiwick, she thought, frowning. I don't track down animals so they can be eliminated. The habits of animals in the wild needed to be researched. That she was trained for. The sometimes perilous interaction between the animal kingdom and human kind was unavoidable. Yet there was something drawing her in a different direction, one in which she would have to, at the very least, readjust her professional outlook. She knew the Arizona Game and Fish Department was going to be called in once again. There would be competing agencies battling for supervisory position. It was going to get ugly and public. Tourists boards. Mayor's offices. Police departments. Media. She didn't know whether or not she wanted to be a part of the coming circus.

She did have skills though. Outdoors, she was an accomplished tracker and knew the flora and fauna of the area better than most. Added to that, Rachel had been to the valley numerous times before and knew the trails and forest roads well. With her battered Subaru she had been up and down many of the dirt and gravel roads all over the Verde Valley, camping here and there in order to compile data.

Then again there were the hunters, the professional ones who advertised on the internet, bragging about "treeing" cougars with their pack of hunting dogs. For five hundred, a thousand, maybe more, the prospective hunter could bag a large cat with one easy shot, as the frightened animal cowered in a tree, having fled from a half dozen barking, snarling dogs hot on his scent. Right there on the website you could see videos of the cornered cat, perched up high on a limb, while below the dogs howled as they surrounded the tree.

This is hunting? Rachel had thought the first time a colleague had asked her to take a look at one of the websites. The hunter had only to pull the trigger, as he safely stood below the tree. It was a cruel twist of animal/human contact. A beautiful animal was brought down by menacing dogs and high powered weapons. There was no balance of natural power. Man was corrupting the process. Gone was any semblance of nature's proprietary chance.

Undoubtedly, so Rachel imagined, a hunting company, one in the valley, would be hired for the deed. They would seek out the rogue mountain lion and it would be dispatched. The situation had now become a question of public safety. Civilization brought with it boundaries. The natural contours of the land had to be whittled down, bracketed by property lines and incorporated perimeters. After that, no life should be lost by the elemental encroachment of people on a wilderness.

Would it be the right cougar? She knew she would be called in to sort it out, comparing bite marks and other physical markers. The dead cat would lie there, inert, bullet wound to the chest, decaying. Another threat to human life put down. Two lives lost. No more. The valley would be safe again.

As she was walking back to her car, something caught her eye. Rachel stopped to examine it. It was a folded photograph. The photo had been battered by the weather but she could see it was a picture of a young man and an older woman. On the back there was something written in Spanish. The letters had been smeared by lying out in the open.

Turning, she looked back at the campsite, imagining where the evidence markers had been placed. She had seen the crime scene photos, the placement of body parts. The killsite did seem unusual, almost as if the cougar was adopting human characteristics. Animals killed out of necessity, for food. The layout of the killing unfolded almost as if the cat had wanted to inflict as much harm as possible. Predators weren't vindictive by nature. Maybe by Carlos wielding the knife the mountain lion had become enraged, she wondered. The severed arm. Missing foot. Disfigured face. It all seemed as if the cougar was extracting some degree of revenge on his victim.

It was rare but cougars did attack humans. People over the years have died in attacks. Although, biologically, the big cats followed natural feeding habits, they weren't exempt from wandering away from their usual prey. California had been having a rash of mountain lion/human encounters, some ending badly. Even Arizona had some attacks on record but they were minor in comparison to California's problem. The statewide ecosystem supported the cougar adequately, leaving them room enough to secure a feeding range.

When this hit the media there was going to be a spotlight on the mountain lion population and it was probably going to deteriorate rapidly into eradication talk. Rachel had seen it before, usually led by ranchers fed up with cougars poaching their life stock with impunity. She could only imagine what it was going to be like when human life was at risk.

Chapter 5 Kristen Snow: 3rd Victim

Kristen's fortieth birthday was coming up. She had a new boy friend, finally putting her acrimonious divorce behind her. Two teenagers in the house kept her occupied, so dealing with the remnants of her crumbling marriage had been a hardship she just wanted to forget about. Their father had moved to Tucson, taking a new job and, for the most part, neglecting his duties as a father. For her, that was fine. He hadn't been there for them, their two kids. He hadn't been much of a father, choosing to let her do most of the parenting. They had married much too young and he had never grown up. The friction between them grew so bad in the final two years of their marriage several relatives on numerous occasions had to step in to offer impromptu mediation.

Fortunately, her husband had never been violent. The responsibility of being a parent just seemed to overwhelm him most times, and as a result he withdrew from the family. In the end, after almost two years of petty squabbles and constant arguments, they took their own parent's advice and split up. It didn't come easy but in time they both knew it was necessary. The new status quo became a parental balance that leaned heavily on her, with the father three quarters of the time in absentia; although he was quick with a text or skype phone call, little measures to keep him linked to his former family. Once or twice a year the kids would travel down to Tucson for a strained visit with their father and his latest girl friend.

This was, for the most part, modern America, families dismantled then put back together with interchangeable parts. Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it didn't. Kristen wasn't at all sure their version was working. Her children seemed to have had adjusted to the new family structure but she wasn't certain. Emotional trauma did have a tendency to fester until a later date in time. She tried as best she could to establish a home life for them, one where she was the prominent parent, there for them whenever they needed her.

She had kept the house, a smallish three bedroom manufactured home just south of Sedona. It was in a community that was right off 89A, built with a minimum of land for each home but placed in a location that was perched in among the outskirts of the Red Rocks. "Views all around," the real estate agent had told them when they pulled up to the small community that seemed to have been grafted onto the famous tourist attraction, close but so far away. They had just moved there for her husband's new job and wanted to buy a house because she was pregnant with her first child. Before, back in California, they had been living in an apartment.

Kristen didn't like the look of the claustrophobic community, with the sense of impermanence a manufactured home gives off. The houses were unremarkable and so close together that intimacy with your immediate neighbor was going to be unavoidable. At first, she just wanted to turn around and drive right back out, speeding down the curving, narrow roads until she was back out on the open highway. Her husband had his doubts too but knew they wouldn't be able to afford much more than what they were looking at.

"We will probably have to go down to Cottonwood...maybe Camp Verde," he told her when they were alone, away from the realtor, who, with professional aplomb, was pushing them to buy. "Then I'm back to commuting miles and miles like back in California."

"I know, that sucks," she said, looking away, not wanting to succumb to his subtle pressure.

After a few weeks of looking, they made an offer, even though their parents told them they were stupid to buy a home that lost value from one year to the next. Now, even though she still regretted buying a property with little or no long term value, she called it her home. It had her touches added to it, from the skylight in the back room she installed, where you could see the stars twinkling at night to the remodeled kitchen with the new appliances she had personally ordered. As a bonus she even liked her neighbors and felt safe in the community, which went a long way towards providing a sense of home.

It had taken her two long years after the divorce to date again, like learning a new language almost, so she like to tell her friends. Men, strange new men, were foreign to her. She had been married long enough to forget dating rituals and simple interaction between the sexes. Her daughter, now in her teens, teased her mother, finding it incredible that a grown woman wouldn't know how to act around the opposite sex. Her other daughter, slightly younger, didn't approve, thinking that having a mother, her mother in particular, go out with a man was weird, and embarrassing.

There had been a few dates, some set up by friends at work and others she finessed through contacts at social functions. None of them panned out. The men, as a group, were either free lancers, eager to play but not establish a connection, or more maladroit than her at the dating scene, making for an excruciating time negotiating uncomfortable conversations. Kristen didn't want to give up. She was approaching forty. Her life wasn't over. There had to be another chapter, so her friends assured her.

Finally, she did meet someone, in the grocery store, like in a chapter from a book of how to meet men. He bumped into her accidentally and they exchanged apologies, then began to talk. He had just moved to Sedona, from California. They had actually lived near each other before. It was a coincidence. He was two years younger, medium height, handsome, with an easy laugh. Before she knew it they were in Starbucks having coffee together.

Arizona was over run with transplanted Californians, so they instinctually knew there wasn't any cosmic connection in them meeting, but it did seem destined in some way. He was also divorced, no kids. He had moved to Sedona to make a new start. Since going on vacation there five years before he had always wanted to return. His ex-wife hated the place, unable to get excited about dirt and rocks, whatever color they were. After jettisoning his marriage, it was the first thing on his mind. He quit his job and packed his car then drove east.

Kristen liked his story, that an infatuation with some location would compel him to transition to another State, essentially another life. As an added bonus, he got along well with her two girls, who seem to accept him absent of any drama. They were soon doing things together like a family, going to the Grand Canyon, watching movies, taking the Verde Valley train up the canyon. Life had taken a turn for her. She thought there might be a second act.

On the cul de sac she lived on there was a short trail that led away from the houses, eventually leading to a dirt road and on up to a cinder cone, another dormant volcano that provided the landscape with some of its jagged skyline. Kristen often took her small dog on his late afternoon walk there because it was away from the houses and she didn't want to have to pick up after him. The dog had been a gift from her former husband, given to her in the latter stages of their disintegrating marriage as a peace offering. It was a terrier mix that had done the trick at first, mending the rift between them for a little while.

After the divorce, she had kept him, even though the dog always seemed to like her husband more than her. Her two girls had long ago abandoned any attempts at caring for the dog, so she was the sole caretaker. Between them, they formed a working bond of affection, even though she hated to have to discipline him when he barked too often or if he made a mess inside the house, which, fortunately, was infrequent. As with most family pets, he had become a fixture in the family and she was happy to see the dog accept her new boy friend almost immediately.

The walks out to the cinder cone usually only took about fifteen minutes. Most times she didn't like to go out there when it was too close to dusk. Being out there after dark could be a frightening experience. Darkness seemed to come swiftly and there was little to no other illumination. Forest sounds seem to be amplified and shapes and shadows appeared everywhere. Although she carried a flashlight, the beam of the light illuminated very little and only made it more eery.

On this night, as she was preparing to take the dog out, one of her daughters had told her not to go too far. Giving her daughter a puzzled look, her daughter had exclaimed: "Mountain lions, mom, duh." Two people had been killed and it was all over the media, even though the officials were trying to downplay the two killings as random and statistically insignificant. Most people in the Verde Valley weren't giving it much thought. Wildlife lived out there beyond the average person's environment. It wasn't a pressing problem.

Sedona, although a day hikers paradise, was, in real terms, like Disneyland for outdoor enthusiasts. The trails were well marked and, for the most part, within sight of homes. You, as the hiker, weren't heading out into the unknown. At times, inevitably, some people did have to be rescued but that was usually because of their own negligence and not any level of extreme hiking conditions. At no time did Kristen ever consider her short walks with her dog to be dangerous. There was no danger of her getting lost or disoriented. She never lost sight of the houses. The trail was well worn by other walkers and dog walkers, even mountain bikers.

"I'll be back in a minute," she called out to her daughters, as she exited out the back door.
"Flashlight!" her youngest shouted out.

"Got it," she called back, while her dog eagerly jumped up, excited to go exploring as he strained at the leash.

Her usual route took her down the trail that began a half block from her house. This time she decided to walk further down the paved road to pick up a dirt road that spiraled out from the community, dead ending on the north side of the cinder cone. It was an easier walk, flat and affording her a better view of the Cockscomb rock formation in the distance. The last rays of sunlight were lighting up the red rocks, a sight she never got tired of seeing.

While her dog sniffed the ground in front of her, pulling on the leash constantly for her to keep moving, she answered her cell phone. It was her boy friend calling to tell her that he was going to be late coming over. Kristen continued to walk slowly along to accommodate her dog, while she talked. They began discussing their plans to go to a basketball game in Phoenix, a weekend outing. He was more excited than her about seeing the Lakers but she acted enthused for his sake. The novelty, the newness of their relationship was still blossoming, bringing her a good feeling about the direction things were heading.

"I heard something over the phone," he would tell the police later, tearfully. "She was talking to me when it happened."

While she was talking she hadn't noticed that her dog was beginning to whimper, then bark. It wasn't uncommon for him to bark at rabbits or when he might hear a sound in the woods. She would usually just tell him to be quiet and they would move on. Now, it was different. The dog didn't want to move. He was standing stock still, with his ears perked up. She also noticed that his legs were trembling almost uncontrollably.

"Rosco is acting really strange," she said into the phone, bending over to pet the terrified dog.

"I heard her say something like it's okay or what's wrong?" he said, trying not to remember the hurtful memory. "Then there was a bark and I could...I could here a rustling noise and a thud sound." He would tell the police, trying to gather up his composure. "Then I heard a scream."

The mountain lion had slipped in behind her as she was walking then pounced, taking her by surprise. The dog had picked up the cat's scent and was paralyzed by fear. The attack occurred on a dusty road so the spores were clearly visible. Later, Rachel would make plaster casts of many of the prints, detailing how the attack had unfolded.

Kristen's body was found later on the next day, half concealed in a wash about a hundred yards away. It was obvious where the cat had dragged the body across the dirt road and on into the brush. A trail of blood coursed along for over twenty feet. The half eaten corpse showed the same teeth marks. Even though there had to be an analysis, Rachel knew right away it was the same mountain lion. It was certain. They now had a serial killer, a rogue mountain lion preying on people.

Kristen's daughters knew something had gone wrong when the dog returned, with his leash dragging on the ground. He was whining and wouldn't stop. They had to lock him away in a bedroom. Moments later, Kristen's boy friend called, wanting to know what happened. He had been talking to their mother and then nothing. Is she okay? They called the police.

"More of the same," the Yavapai County detective said to Rachel when she showed up on the scene the next day, having driven immediately up from Phoenix. "We can't keep meeting like this."

She ignored his weak attempt at humor and proceeded down the road to the crime scene area. Yellow tape flickered in the slight breeze out of the west. She could see that already too many people had trampled over the ground, obliterating some of the prints. "Listen, next time keep the people off the attack surface," she complained, irritated.

"Hard to do," was all he said.

Rachel stopped outside the tape area and stepped off the road. She almost immediately found the impression in the ground where the cougar had crouched, waiting. She could see by the footprints that it was a popular area for people to walk. The cat is thinking, not reacting instinctually, she thought. He is getting a bead on people's personal habits. This is analytical behavior. "Shit," she exclaimed.

"Find something?"

"Yeah, we're in for some deep shit now," she told him, making a face. "I think this cat is beginning to adopt a more cognitive approach to hunting, like a hunter in reverse."

"What's that mean?" he asked, laughing.

"Cats, or predators in general, will be hardwired from birth to go after prey but they usually stay within the confines of instinctual boundaries. Like going after deer and they learn what the deer likes to do or be doing. This cougar is rebooting his brain. He is changing the menu and is at the same time learning how to go about it. Judging by these three attacks he is a fast learner."

"Are you kidding me?" he said, almost stammering. "You are starting to scare me," he added, half jokingly.

"Maybe you should be," she offered ominously. "This might mean that he has abandoned his tracking patterns entirely and is going to dine on you and me. Think about that for a minute. How many tourists come to this area on any given day? Not to mention the inattentive local. This is easy pickings for him."

"Should we call out the National Guard?" he joked uneasily, as he looked around, scanning the bushes, with his hand hovering near his gun.

She chuckled and told him, "That gun isn't going to be much help unless you are a gunslinger and fast on the draw. By the time you unholster it you are going to be feeling some bite marks on your neck."

Rachel followed the trail through the bushes down to the wash where the body had been buried. The ME had already texted her some of the preliminary photos so she knew that the kill had been conducted as a text book case of cougar ambush. Kristen's torso had been torn open and she was missing a leg. Animal fur had been found under her nails and she had bite marks to the upper chest area and her face. She too had tried to fight back, probably enraging the mountain lion. It seemed that the cougar was beginning to enjoy the grappling, the resistance from his prey.

She did her field work, taking samples and cataloguing the spore casts and scat content. This is the turning point, she thought, knowing that her life was about to change. Already she had refused several interviews from network and cable shows. So called animal experts were popping up on tv shows spouting all sorts of nonsense about the developing case. On You tube, cougar attacks requests had zoomed to the top. It was only a matter of time before it ended up on the nightly national broadcasts.

"Have we jumped the shark?" the ME wanted to know when she called later on that day with her preliminary report.

"I don't know what that means," she answered, peeved, not wanting to play along with the mounting hysteria and gleeful sense of an event about to happen. "I do know that it isn't over. I never seen or even heard of something like this kind of thing. I'm not a believer of the spirits but maybe we should call in a Native American medicine man," she suggested jokingly.

"Funny you should say that," he told her, laughing. "They are on their way down there right now."

"What?" she said wearily.

"Yeah, some Apache and, I think, a Navajo too," he informed her. "They think there is something wrong with the spirits in the land and are going to straighten it out. Don't laugh. The cougar is sacred to them or a god or who knows what. Can't hurt."

Yeah it can, she thought but said, "Three ring circus."

Rachel was glad she didn't have to talk to the survivors of the victims, interview them in an official capacity. Her work was removed, academic related. How do you tell someone their loved one had just been attacked by a wild animal, eviscerated, eaten. They had died in a warped interpretation of the natural order of things. Humans were at the top of the food chain. They dictated the rules, and even though there were spiritual men in route to sort matters out she knew something was going to be brought to bare. Steps were going to be taken, drastic steps. She knew she was powerless to stop it.

Kristen Snow had now become a tabulation. On record. Another data point. Already Rachel had begun to assemble a pattern or hopefully a working blueprint that would demonstrate how a killer cat was operating. How did you step inside the mind of a predator, a wild animal bent on killing, stepping up into the next species. She wasn't sure. Her job was to catalogue behavior not intercept or alter it. She had spent the bulk of her young career out in the wild observing, striving to not make any interruptions in what mother nature offered. Remaining basically invisible was a mindset that served her well and was expected of someone in her craft.

The ME's office, the police departments in the valley, in the county, mayors, residents, they would all want answers, solutions. Shoot him. Poison him. Use helicopters. Hunting dogs. Anything to eradicate the problem. Death. Bad publicity. Fear. It would leave a stain.

Call in the hunters. Unbeknownst to her it had already been done. The county was in the process of deciding which hunting outfit to go with, a minor bureaucratic hitch until someone was selected to carry out the mission. It had become that, a mission. Even the governor had stepped in, passing on governmental impetus to get the job completed. No one wanted to see Arizona become ground zero for terror originating out of the wilderness that everyone came to the State to see. It would be a PR disaster.

Chapter 6 Caleb Foster: The Hunter

He was three years out of the Army, where he had served in a recon unit, excelling at being invisible in all types of terrain. It came with the MOS he elected to pursue. Two wars later and he was home, safe, with only traces of regret. Surviving several close calls, from roadside bombs to sniper fire, Caleb was determined to put it all in the past. He had tucked his small trove of medals away on a shelf in the closet, not to be unearthed, displayed, talked about. The War on Terror had called him to serve and he was now done, finished.

What do you do with your life after enduring combat? he wondered, as he settled back in on his family's small farm with ranch pretensions, nestled near West Clear Creek outside of Camp Verde. They grew corn and a few other vegetables and had a dying apple orchard left over from decades ago, which had matured pretty much on its own then rapidly slid into decline after no one in his family wanted to tend to it. The land had been under their name for over a hundred years. Foster was a name that stretched back in Camp Verde all the way to when the fort was established and General Crook was enacting governmental sponsored genocide against the Indians, giving them bragging rights that stacked up evenly against the native American claims.

The history of the town wasn't sterling, dating from the later part of the 1800's, when Fort Verde was established as a bulwark against the Indians in the continuing Central Arizona Indian Wars, culminating in the removal of the Indians from the valley in a forced march south to nowhere. Bitterness, in many ways, still lingered in the town between the two warring sides, or at least simmered under the surface. One of Caleb's ancestor's had come out West from Chicago for the mining and when the mines went bust he turned to farming and purchased a tract of land at a reduced price. Although Camp Verde was near the Mogollon Rim, which was part of the geological Colorado Plateau formation, and had a ready source of water, it was Indian territory and there was ongoing hostilities. Like any pioneer bent on surviving, his ancestor persevered through droughts, attacks, and disease.

His mother was fond of saying that her son possessed some of that "grit" and was always "hardheaded about things." Caleb was born and raised in that valley, spending his youth in the barren hills surrounding the farm and on out to the Bradshaw Mountains to the south. By the time he was twelve he was sleeping outdoors, spending nights at a time alone in the wilderness. With his first rifle, a 22, he would hunt small game and field strip it, eat it, and essentially live off the land. Alone. Days at a time at first, and then, by the time he was in High School, weeks and on into a month or more.

His formal schooling had stopped after the sixth grade, when one of his aunts, on his mother's side, agreed to home school him along with her three children. Caleb's mother had grown tired of fielding phone calls from the local school beseeching her to come fetch her son because he had caused more problems in class. Structured education might not be a good fit for your son, or so said the Principal one day, silently begging her to take him off their hands.

It hadn't been as much a disciplinary problem as much as a sound display of apathy and the desire not to cooperate. Caleb would often just remain silent, refusing to join in on any class activities while he sat and stared out the window. He wasn't a "slow child" one of his teachers assured his mother, just reluctant to participate. It was decided by all parties involved that he might be best served by remaining at home, with people he was comfortable with.

Aunt Tilly accepted the challenge reluctantly, even though she was confident in the educational model she used with her own children. She was determined that no governmental school system was going to corrupt her kids, poisoning their fragile minds with liberalism and multicultural based curriculums. She had plucked course plans off the internet from sites where she knew they shared her political views. Her children, and now Caleb, were going to be educated in a manner that she felt equalized what harmful stimuli they might be bombarded with otherwise.

Caleb, in a word, didn't care. School meant he was unable to be outdoors, in the wilderness, doing what he wanted to do. Books, pencils, yammering teachers, it all worked to detract him from being where he really wanted to be. Aunt Tilly would realize this early on as he neglected to join in during her class sessions, even with his cousins. Fortunately, she was able to get him to read. He would take whatever books she offered and pore over them on his time, often returning later on to tell her what he thought of them. Before long, he would stash books in his backpack as he heading out to the Rim, spending time by the campfire studying in his own way.

This method worked in the end because of his natural tendency for exploration, in the wild and in print. His mind functioned in a peculiar but personalized analytical way. He learned but under his own terms. Proof came when he passed his GED and was eagerly accepted in the Army.

The Foster's weren't military people. Caleb's father hadn't served and his grand father had been exempted because he was a farmer. World War, ten year skirmishes in southeast Asia, they passed without the Foster men participating. The insularity of the Verde Valley kept them there, almost interned by the surrounding mountains and rural distance. For Caleb, he wanted to see other places.

"Why for?" his father wanted to know the day his son told him of his tentative plans to join the Service. "You have everything here."

"Dad," he started to say, stopping to think for a moment, "I just want to see other...you know, other countries. In the Army I can go and see what else is out there."

Their life in the valley centered around the seasons and they lived a modest lifestyle, with crops to bring in and life stock to raise. It was a bucolic pace, with little alterations except for the level of the snowmelt and the coming of the infrequent rain. Life was defined by nature's elliptical passage, following the sun. It was a seductive rhythm that could lull you into mental complacency and contentment. The wind, the stars, another sunrise, it was all conducive to being a part of something bigger than yourself but where you were a vital cog in the revolving machinery. One generation, two, the next, it went beyond being temporal as you struggled for permanency.

"I hope you know what you are doing, Caleb," he father suggested in a tone of voice that hinted at a warning.

"I don't," Caleb joked, grinning, adding, "but I guess I'll see what happens."

He was eighteen. Six foot tall. Just under 170 lbs. Fit. He hiked for hours, sometimes days. His scores on the military ASVAB test had been high. Caleb seemed to know a little something about everything. Mechanical. Verbal. Math. The Army welcomed him immediately, shipping him off to BCT and into the Infantry. His natural skills in the field tracked him towards a specialized MOS, where he excelled, impressing his instructors from day one. All of those times spent in the woods alone, on the trail of game, unseen, undetected, served him well during training.

His next stop was inevitably a war theater, first Iraq and then Afghanistan. The politicization of the wars didn't register with him. Caleb had removed himself from such machinations, even though his Aunt had attempted to establish a set of beliefs, a core, but he didn't assimilate any of them. He was apolitical. His mind didn't adhere to strident or reactionary creeds. He had read once in one of his books about Greek history the concept of Stoicism and found it rang true to him, even though he didn't understand all of it. Caleb liked the principle because it seemed to match the tenor of his personality. The Hellenistic philosophy central belief centered on man being in accord with nature. Life was defined by elements of nature that were, when examined, practical, and in their way, inevitable. He identified with that assessment. He knew nature, intimately, after years of living in the wild and seeing what his family's farm reaped from the soil.

Death, as an example, was elementary. It's causal trappings were easily traceable. He was instrumental in so much of it at the end of his rifle while out hunting. Animals preyed on other animals. Anger killed. Disease could be the cause. Age. The elements. The working order didn't have to be examined very much. Details might add clarity but it remained the same in the end.

So Caleb pulled the trigger. Others pulled theirs. Bombs went off. RPGs flew through the air. One, two, three or four of his comrades in arms went down. Competing political orientations claimed a prize. It was all just an extension of what he experienced before on a larger scale.

Despite his mental resolve and psychologically removed demeanor, Caleb suffered along with everyone else. He had traveled to other deserts, not unlike his home, and exacted his pound of flesh. Foreign men, players in the large scale drama, died. He endured the oppressive heat and the privations, reaching the rank of staff sergeant, a leader of other men bringing portions of mayhem to the war effort. Then he decided it was enough.

Tours of duty had mounted up. He had not been home in over four years, like a character in a historical novel, lost to his destiny. His family drifted in and out of his memories. He tried to remember his treks through the Arizonan wilderness. Nothing. They had been decimated by the fresh horror of fire fights and stifling tedium during down times, waiting, always preparing for the next thrust into the unknown, finally fading like his frayed and tattered camouflage fatigues.

"Rotating out of the sand box," he told his Captain, who looked at him, staring, trying to judge the comment on its merits.

"Really," he said, letting some sarcasm slip into his tone, because he knew Caleb was his best soldier, a man uniquely suited for the absurdities of war. "When?"

It was done. He would not reup again. Time served. Caleb would return and return to his former life in the valley, in the wilderness that he knew so well. His family was there, a living history that he now wanted to contribute to any way he could. He had a sister, a brother, other relatives, the concept of family seemed paramount to him. As a young man he had endured more crucibles than should be expected.

After separation from the Army, he settled back on his parent's farm, taking up residence in a small trailer parked towards the back of the property. It had been a small refuge for him ever since he was in his teens. It was where he kept his hunting rifles and small library of books he had collected over the years. At first his parents had been overjoyed at his return, thanking God that he hadn't been killed over there in those wars no one wanted to think about. As with other parts of the nation, the war effort sputtered along, absent much interest, now ingrained in the people's awareness as patriotism on loan from a few.

Caleb wasn't resentful. His country was what it had become, a commercial entity that functioned best when the citizenry was permitted to indulge their ever changing whimsy. He didn't take the time to philosophize about it. "Accept it, bro," one of his platoon mates had told him one day as they sat there concealed behind a just built Hesco, hunkered down, waiting for another salvo from some Taliban sympathizers over on the next hill. "We're in the shit over here and they couldn't give a fuck," he went on to say, laughing. "Fuck yeah," another soldier stated, removing the magazine from his assault rifle and tapping it against the stock, before adding, "half of them couldn't find Afghanistan on a map." They all laughed, mentally sidestepping the danger that lurked not a hundred yards away.

Don't analyze it, his mind told him each and every day, as another sunrise brought daylight, revealing his handiwork from the day before. He had seen the implementation of carnage, up close, personal, as they were fond of saying, laughing. Twelve hours before, as his men swept through a small village perched on the side of a hill, deep in a ravine, eons away from modernity, he had stopped to examine the body of man. He was old but you could never tell with the Afghans, who seemed to age by the decade and not the year. His weathered face, burnt a mahogany brown by the sun, covered by a long, graying beard, seemed at sleep, except for the smallish puckered hole in his right cheek. A trickle of blood disappeared into his beard. Caleb looked down to see one of the man's shoes had fallen off in his haste to avoid certain death. It was one of the cheap plastic slip on sandals all the tribesman wore. We're fighting guys who run around in slides, he thought, shaking his head. The recipe of this war was truly bizarre, so strange that it made your mind do somersaults, or so he liked to tell the other NCO in his company, now a fast friend after training together and being involved in the applied warfare being tried out in a land that had known nothing but conquerors for most of its checkered history. They were there to direct the madness, give it credence, a shape, something their men could identify.

In practice, they brought the military's stinger to bear, which was how a commander had explained it. Seek out the enemy, the ones residing in stone age hamlets, clinging to faith, and wanting nothing but revenge. Pinpoint them. Sometimes it was as if two centuries were colliding, separated by muscular technology and simple subsistence; but it was always the bullet that settled the conflict. Aging, invincible AK-47's clacked away, the sound drifting up and over the Hindu Kush, as surprisingly agile men, untrained, but determined materialized from behind boulders, rising up from stone walls, always ready to inflict death. Like the hostile mountain wind and the deep snow, the terrain always provided cover. The inevitability of their return, the spectral villagers, wore down your resolve, like being trapped in an endless loop with no exit ramp.

Caleb didn't think about that anymore. He had severed ties with his Army past. There would be no calls to the VA 800 number, seeking out answers to questions he never wanted to ask. He knew. Rumors winnowed through his Company, filtering down to each platoon. Another soldier had died, taking the final leap. Axed. Men who lived to kill were turning their skill to other avenues. He wasn't going that route, even though two of his friends had, with a bullet to the head.

Mentally adrift, he had heard a psychologist say on a talk show one day after he returned home. He, the psychologist, was wrong. They were dead inside, dried up from decay. Once your first pulled that trigger, heard the localized explosion in your ear, then accepted the import of your action, you had stepped on a slippery slope. Your own personalized carnage was freeze dried, preserved, stored away. No amount of rationalizing was going to change the formula, an intricate dance of intent and results. There would always be that old man on the ground, hole in the side of the head, grimace on his lips, lifeless, with his gnarled hands clenching the air.

The trailer smelled of mildew, leftover from the previous monsoon season. He opened the windows and let it air out for a few days, while he repaired the front door which was beginning to warp. The pellet stove was prepped because even though Spring was approaching, it was still cold at night. He purchased a small solar panel to add some needed electrical power and cleaned out the small bedroom.

At first, he took his meals with his parents, who were glad to have him home, even though his mother almost immediately wanted to know what his future plans were going to be. She told him he should use his VA money and take some courses at the local community college, while his father hoped he would help with the farming, which, at his age, was beginning to overwhelm him. The attention was aggravating but Caleb knew they meant well and were concerned.

Before long, after he had the trailer restored to suitable living quarters, he began to retreat to the solitude it provided him. Going to college wasn't going to be on his agenda and he puzzled over ways to gently tell his mother. Farming, he could do. It would give his mind time to readjust, slide back into the seasonal rhythms of the valley, ease him back to a functional level. Yet, it was the return to the wilderness he longed for, back to those long nights alone with the sounds of the night, stars over head, a coolness in the air. Caleb knew this wasn't healthy in the long run, but only a stop over before he would have to decide what to do with the rest of his life.

Caleb first heard about the mountain lion scare when he was at the feed store and the owner was talking to a customer about the problem. "Shoot the damn thing," he had said to the customer, as he pantomimed shooting a rifle. "Problem solved." He listened, intrigued. It reminded him of the time he came across a mountain lion's den and there was a kitten inside mewing. He had stopped, surveyed the surrounding area, looking for the mother cat, then peeked inside to see the small animal staring up at him. It had given him a thrill he had never experienced before.

He seldom watched television and didn't listen much to the radio. Outside news happened but Caleb stayed remarkably unaware. After being in the Army and away for so many tours of duty, he was basically devoid of extrinsic influences. He heard his fellow soldiers talk about things but he never listened. His focus stayed in front of him, like being cognizant of your surrounding perimeter and nothing more.

This local news event piqued his interest though. Mountain lion, killings, he decided he wanted to know more about it. On the way back home he stopped to buy a local newspaper. There, on the front page, in large print, the headlines told him what was occurring. Three people had been mauled, dying horrible deaths. Civilian death, he thought, pushing back any memories of what he had seen over there, bodies torn and dismembered, left on street corners and in the rubble after an explosion had ripped away the walls, ceilings, proving just how fragile mortar and stone could be.

A little girl, a man, a woman, a string of victims stretching across the valley, so said the article, touching on all the grisly details in a clinical journalistic manner, but leaving little for the imagination to conjure. The authorities had pieced it together, finally. Killsites in three separate areas of the valley brought home the horror, the fear of being vulnerable at any place, any time. You were being stalked.

Cougars were different. They were stealthy and born to stalk. The bear was happy to restrict his omnivorous diet to whatever was on hand. The mountain lion was carnivorous and born to attack. Caleb had never shot a cat. Even though they were, in a way, a direct competitor of his, tracking deer as their favorite food source, he didn't begrudge them their handiwork in the wild.

Caleb hunted for food, preferring elk and deer, the ideal meat for the jerky he liked to prepare himself back at the farm, using the dehydrator he had built and marinating the slices of meat in a sauce he had perfected over the years, before storing the jerky in jars he kept in the pantry. He was known for his skills at making jerky, even encouraged to sell it. He refused, believing that hunting, for him, was about supplying nutrients drawn from the land, a link in the chain that stretched from the crops his family grew to the wildlife in the surrounding hills.

"That sounds like some kind of Zen shit," one of his friends in the Army told him one day, after he had managed to get Caleb to talk about his life back home, something he avoided doing most of the time. "Like, dude, you are back to the nature and deep into spiritual crap or something."

Caleb had just laughed at that, embarrassed that he had said anything about his time spent back in the valley, back in Arizona. He didn't like to reveal anything about himself, choosing to remain as anonymous as possible. People didn't need to know about his "bio," what made him do what he did. He was Sergeant Foster, nothing more.

When he returned home, he asked his father about the killings and was told they had hired a hunter to track down the mountain lion. What other solution was there, his father had speculated, telling his son that people can't keep getting attacked. Caleb asked him if he knew who it was they had signed up and was told it was the Black Hills Hunting company. He knew of them. They were based out of Camp Verde. The Arizona Game and Fish Department had handed over the problem to them, although they tried to insist one of their officers be involved in the hunt.

Dogs, Caleb thought, knowing what would unfold after the hunt got officially underway. These were companies that gave big spenders a thrill, taking them along for the kill as a pack of dogs tracked the cat over all kinds of terrain. It was, to him, a travesty, a trumped up hunt so play hunters could bag a trophy. The cougar was at a distinct disadvantage, hounded by the pack, cornered, then dispatched easily with a high powered rifle, maybe even a bow if the hunter thought he was being charitable. It all amounted to slow motion and artificial slaughter, with photographs and videos, something to memorialize the event.

He hated the hunting companies, despised what they represented in the modern world of hunting technique and animal management. They were one step below the "clowns" he saw parked off forest roads in large RV's, with portable generators and large fold up tables, there to bring comfort to their less than adequate hunting skills. They would party at night and talk about shooting game from the season before, as they buzzed around the forest on their ATV's, stopping to stare at their GPS instrument, laying down deer urine, synthetic or authentic, to lure their prize. Caleb would sometimes see them wandering around in the late morning hours as he was returning home after having tracked a deer or elk since before daybreak. They would be hungover from drinking too much the night before, while they dined on steaks cooked on their gas grills, with a satellite dish attached to the roof of their home away home providing them with entertainment for the evening.

He had no respect for them, even detested them for the most part. Hunting, for him, was about living in the woods, sleeping on the ground, in the elements, breathing in the smell of pine and becoming a part of the experience. Caleb traveled light, just a small backpack, building wikiups from tree branches, disdaining the state of the art tents, with their gaudy colors and expensive price tags. After a kill, he would craft a travois, the ancient Indian method of transporting heavy objects, dragging it behind him laden with fresh meat he had procured from the animal after he gutted, stripped, and sectioned it for later use.

All the modern hunting aids he found offensive, even obscene in the hunter/wildlife axis. No blinds. No tree stands. No decoys. No battery operated game calls. He hunted alone, with no entourages, groups of friends with their vests and orange hats bought from online retailers offering the newest and latest hunting clothes and gadgets for the gullible. He didn't sit on hillsides using high powered binoculars or spotting scopes, glassing distant ravines or washes, waiting to spot their next kill, often firing off high powered rounds after zeroing in using sophisticated rifle scopes that could cost hundreds of dollars. Caleb thought of himself as a purist.

He would sit for hours with his eyes closed, listening, while he sniffed the air. It enhanced his tracking skills, as he increased the abilities of his other senses. Too many hunters relied on technology, forfeiting the hunt to applied grids and stupid luck. Caleb would often return home scratched and weary after bushwacking through the catclaw acacia, crucifixion and gray thorn bushes on the mountain sides, leaving his forearms with a patchwork of scabs. His pant legs would smell of cliffrose and have a fine layer of desert dust on them.

At first, as he attempted to get back to where he had been before, in tune with the wilderness, Caleb struggled to regain his footing in the woods. Although he had been in the field during his tours, often in hostile climates and environments, he found it difficult in the initial stages of returning to his home turf to reconnect. He would once again have to jettison some of his gear, paring it down, minimizing. In the Army there had been a network of support, the combat apparatus surrounding any successful campaign in theater. It was now just him, alone.

He stripped his pack down to the minimum size and discarded all the superfluous things he didn't need. Gone was the high powered assault rifle, with the numerous attachments, including a rifle scope he had gotten too accustomed to. No radios. No GPS. No maps. He was returning to his former alignment, merging with his surroundings.

Before long, to his parent's dismay, he was absent days and then weeks, disappearing up and over into the Mogollon Rim. He would leave a scrawled message on the door of the trailer, saying only that he would be back soon. When? Where? They didn't know.

Later, after they had grown tired of worrying about their son, he would reappear, and there would be another batch of jerky being prepped or more venison stored in the freezer out in the barn. Time had passed but their son was regressing, slipping back into his former self, only a little older. When his parents would try to draw him out, questioning, he would withdraw and then they wouldn't see him again until days had passed. They consulted friends, other relatives, even their minister, but no one had any advice, only that they might call the VA for help.

Caleb's mother had called the VA hotline but halted the interview almost immediately when the voice on the other end of the line wanted to know if she thought their son was a threat to himself. She didn't. Did she? Her husband didn't think so. Caleb wasn't a suicide risk, they were relatively certain about that; even though they had quizzed their other kids about their brother's mental disposition. Leave him alone, let him readjust, that was the prevailing mindset.

All the while Caleb went through a sort of synthesization, almost reborn in the elements, able once again to instantly pick up a wind change or hear an indistinct sound and determine what it was. All those years spent there in his younger years never went away. They quickly began to re-emerge. He was once again trekking through the forest, carrying his grandfather's H & R single shot, center fire rifle, the one that had been bequeathed to him so many years before. In his absence, while away serving overseas, his father had gotten the rifle fully restored as a gift for his return to civilian life. The walnut finish was now in pristine condition and the firing mechanism refitted.

It was an adjustment but he managed to go back to using a scopeless rifle after all those years in the Army. Purity, he thought, remembering what his grand father had said to him when he was a young boy, as they went out to hunt, the usual initiation for the Foster boys. One shot. Aim true. Make it count. It seemed alien now. Laying down fire in combat was diametrically opposite to his hunting doctrine, where killing the enemy was a method in search of a result.

"No, hold it like this," he remembered his grand father telling him, holding the rifle against Caleb's chest and readjusting his arms. "The rifle is like another limb, you have to let it mold to your body." he had explained. "Breath normally. Let the register of your heartbeat calm down." It had all been confusing and he hadn't wanted to disappoint his grand father. "Line up the sights, let them come into harmony." Caleb had wanted to laugh because it all sounded silly but before long his grand father's words would reside in his mind, nestled there as potent as any infantry training he had ever received. "Cradle the trigger, gently. You must not disturb anything else. Your eyes. Breathing. Muscles. And thinking," they have to flow together. Understand?"

He didn't. Firing a gun, a rifle, was supposed to be fun, a way to destroy things. His friends all had guns and they were constantly plinging objects: cans, bottles, road signs, posts. Firearms popped off all over the valley, depositing untold amounts of lead and brass on the valley floor. Archeologists centuries from now are going to wonder what war went on here, Caleb thought, laughing at the thought. Target practice was the end result of most weapons being fired, hastily erected and shot to pieces. It was almost an extension of hatred, or low level aggression, worked out, alleviated by ballistic barrages with one eye closed.

Caleb would learn. Respect the forest. Learn its ways. Accept it.

He was with his grand father when he killed his first animal, a deer. He was twelve years old. The hunt had lasted a week. Just him and his grand father. They had been in the forest for five days, living off jerky and crackers, as they slept in a lean to his grand father had built into the side of a ravine. Caleb had been sick from drinking the water they had been siphoning off a water tank, filtering it by cooking it over an open fire. He felt weak, even disoriented. They had covered miles in the previous few days, moving constantly. Blisters had formed on his toes but he didn't want to complain. At night, while they sat around the fire, with his stomach gnawing from lack of adequate food, he listened while his grand father would go over what they had seen that day, detailing the tracks and other signs they had encountered. Deer rubs, tuffs of fur on low lying branches, impressions in the grass, all the outward signs of game in the area were discussed.

Then there it was, a young mule deer, a buck. with his large ears twitching. They had been tracking it for over an hour, as it moved away from us. Caleb's grand father had maneuvered them down wind and in range. Motioning, his grand father pointed at Caleb's rifle. Frightened, he had raised his rifle into position, struggling with the heft, trying to remember every thing he had been taught. The deer raised his head, testing the air. The rifle seemed like it weighed a hundred pounds, maybe more. His fingers seemed slippery with sweat. He closed his left eye, took aim. The sights drew together. He could feel the cool metal of the trigger against his finger. Then there was a loud noise, an explosion in his ears.

His grand father patted him on the back, but he couldn't hear what he was saying. In the distance the deer dropped onto his front knees then toppled over. A gunshot sound reverberated through the mountains. Caleb looked up for a moment and noticed a few clouds drifting by overhead. A crow cawed close by then flew away. He followed his grand father up the ravine, gripping the rifle close to his chest, trying to mentally digest what he had just done.

"Near perfect shot," his grand father stated, standing over the dead deer, looking down. "Get your knife."

Later, before he was out of his teens, he would hunt alone and only alone. His grand father told him one day that he would no longer accompany him on any hunts. "There's a flickering in his eyes," his grand father had told Caleb's father. No one spoke of it much after that. It was just what Caleb liked to do. At about the same time he let his friendships drift away, die on the vine, so his siblings like to say. Being alone had become his "thing." Although it was worrisome to his family, they permitted him to have his "space," even though some people whispered that they hoped he wouldn't turn out to be a serial killer or one of those types that appear at a mall one day and empty several clips into the crowd of unsuspecting shoppers.

Back to my single shot, Caleb thought, happy to be realigning his outlook, as he remembered the time when he was tracking a bear into a box canyon. He had been following the spores and scat for over an hour, as the bear zig-zagged up and down a steep hillside. He had never killed a bear before. It was his first predator, an animal that could turn the predation tables. His grand father refused to hunt bear, deeming them outside the scope of acceptable game. Killing elk and deer fell under the aegis of animal management, something that improved the balance in the wilderness, the delicate natural give and take that maintained a healthy environment.

At that stage in his hunting experience, Caleb didn't like being a novice again, yet there he was, pursuing a large black bear into a densely forested canyon, where visibility had been reduced to only a matter of feet. Stopping, he listened, letting his breathing return to normal. He noticed his heart was beating irregularly and he knew his adrenaline level had spiked. One of his grand father's cardinal rules had been the reduction of physiological attributes, where your respiratory system overrides everything else. Calm. Composed. Quiet. "You have to be a walking deadman," he would often tell him, with his eyes twinkling, as a slight grin appeared on his face.

Caleb knew he was in a box canyon, a deadend. At the far end of the canyon there was a solid wall of rock reaching two or three hundred feet high. It was impossible to scale. The bear was going to have to retrace his steps eventually. After walking a little while longer, deeper into the canyon, with the jagged rock walls growing closer and closer together, he stopped again, listening. I can either keep pressing him to the end or set up here and wait him out, he told himself. The canyon floor was no more than a hundred feet across at that point. I will get a shot at him as he comes out, he said in a whisper, looking around for a better vantage point, some place he could ambush the bear, a good spot that afforded him a clear shot.

It was then that the bear surprised him, appearing suddenly from behind some brush. "He was fucking mad as hell," Caleb would tell his father later on, after the experience was beginning to be set in his memory, "because I had been pushing behind him up that canyon for over an hour." At first the bear bluffed and mocked charged him, then stopped short. Caleb slowly raised his rifle into position, taking aim. The bear growled at him and stomped the ground with his front paws, swaying his head back and forth slowly. Down the sight he could see the bear was larger than he would have thought, probably over 350 pounds. The bear's ears were pinned back now and before Caleb realized it was rushing him. He fired off a round, which whistled over the bear's head and the gunshot echoed down the canyon.

Panicked, Caleb dropped his single shot rifle, knowing there was no time to reload, and pulled out the large hunting knife he always carried strapped on his belt. Hearing the shot, the bear paused momentarily then inexplicably altered his attack and brushed right past Caleb and ran down the canyon. He could hear him crashing through the brush. Moments later it was silent, except the sound of his breathing. He looked down at the knife in his hand and then down at the rifle on the ground. His hands were shaking. The bear had been so close when he passed him he could smell a musky scent. He would never hunt a bear again.

Chapter 7 Mobilizing

Rachel Winters knew she was going to be called in to do the necropsy on whatever mountain lion they brought in. The hunting company had been hired by the county and was already setting up to go and track down the cougar responsible for the killings. She wasn't hopeful that there would be a good result, one that would calm the restive populace. Already the news items were filtering out about the unprovoked attacks and tourism was declining, at least among the hikers and mountain bikers who liked to visit Red Rock Country; although the tourist board and mayors in the valley had set out to thwart any fall off in visits. Like the mayor in that movie Jaws, she thought, shaking her head. Continuing commerce had to be fostered. The reputation of Sedona had been cultivated over the years and was now a runaway success. bringing the bulk of the valley's economy with it.

I feel like there's a target on my back, she wanted to tell them when they held a hastily arranged meeting in the small, cramped back room of the Cottonwood library. Rachel had been invited to the meeting to brief them on what they could expect from an animal like the mountain lion, its habits and hunting prowess. They were all incredulous that one wild animal could wreak such havoc on their communities. The shared sentiment from all of the officials was to "Kill it!" Get it done.

She had tried to explain to them, using maps and charts, that it might not be that simple. Cougars could have a range of up to a hundred miles. "The cat might be gone...moved on to the furthest reaches of his range," she had stated, holding up a photo of a large male cat to demonstrate that it was a formidable predator. One of the mayors from a neighboring town scoffed and announced, "One shot, boom, problem solved." Rachel had grimaced slightly and replied, "Maybe." Then she went on to say that this mountain lion seemed to be unlike any other she had encountered in her studies, telling them the cougar didn't act like other large cats and was more than just unpredictable.

"How so?" another mayor asked, reaching in her purse to check her vibrating cell phone, before turning it off.

"Well," Rachel said, looking around the small room for a moment, looking at all of the mayors and other people in supervisory positions, people of power who were now powerless, "it looks like this cat is an outlier of sorts." To confused looks all around, she went on to add: "He is not only larger than most in this region...which means more powerful and capable of a higher level of destruction...or killing strength...he doesn't act like most predators."

"'Cause he's killing people?" the representative from the local Ranger District wanted to know.

"There's certainly that aspect," she responded, reaching over and picking up some of the photos from the second kill site. "If you examine these photos you will see that the cougar seems to...to have a vendetta or something. I know, it sounds ridiculous and all and believe me I'm a biologist and don't believe in anything like this but--"

"Oh my god!" one of the mayors almost shrieked, dropping her cell phone on the floor. "Those pictures are horrible."

"Yes, they are and I have to say that some of the cat's behavior is pretty alarming, like he is, you know, enjoying his craft," she stated reluctantly, not wanting to add another level of paranoia to the mix.

"That's disgusting," someone mumbled, leaning over to look at the photographs.

I tell you what's disgusting, Rachel thought, it's hiring a hunting outfit to come in here and kill a bunch of innocent mountain lions. Instead, she remarked, "This whole process might take awhile, so I think we need to get on the same page about a joint response."

"Like what?" someone asked.

"Get the damn media under control," another suggested, while the others heartily agreed.

"Listen," another mayor exclaimed, "I got kids to worry about, not to mention everybody else in my town. I want this to be handled right away...as in yesterday."

"Way ahead of you," the County sheriff declared, standing up from the table and, with his hands on his hips, nodding towards the door. "Out there, right now, are some guys who are going to get the job done. My office got the go ahead to hire some hunters to go after the son of a bitch. Pretty soon, so they tell me, this damn cat is going to be on the taxidermist's table, stuffed."

The Sheriff's bravado brought a round of applause and he smiled back at everyone sitting around the table. Rachel wasn't one of them. She knew that the hunters would tree an unsuspecting cat, shoot it, and transport it back to the local Ranger's office. Then it would be her job to determine whether or not it was the same one that had attacked the three dead victims. She would have to try to match bite marks and other biological markers. It would soon become an elimination process, with too many mountain lions dying along the way.

As they were leaving the meeting, a news van was just pulling into the parking lot. Someone had leaked where the supposedly secret meeting was being held. Several people piled out of the van and Rachel immediately recognized a celebrity network news reporter who had his own magazine style TV show, one of the ones that blended news with human interest stories. He was followed by his retinue of assistants as he hurried towards the front of the library. Spying the Sheriff's uniform, he made a beeline straight for him, with camera in tow.

"What's the word, Sheriff?" he asked, trying to control his breathing, as behind a cameraman was getting into position.

"Can't talk about it now," the Sheriff said, angling for his police cruiser, where a deputy had the motor running.

"Can't or won't?" the news personality called out mockingly. "You are going to have to do an interview sooner or later. Right? People are dying, Sheriff." The Sheriff shot him a murderous look and then got into the waiting car and sped away. Looking around, the reporter then saw a group of people exiting the building and converged on them. "Is anybody here willing to go on record? Right now? I got my crew ready to go."

Most of them begged off and headed for their cars. Rachel stayed inside the lobby of the library, watching what was unfolding, not wanting to go before the camera, although she had plenty to say about the situation. She would have liked to say that the county is about to unleash a small holocaust against the cougars in the valley and surrounding area. She would have also liked to tell people to be on alert, everywhere, because she believed the cat was going to shrink his strike zone eventually and that would mean into neighborhoods and surrounding areas.

"I'll tell you what's going on," one of the mayor's of one of the smaller towns in the valley drawled, hitching up his pants a little as he stopped next to the cameraman. "That thing on? Good. We here in the Verde Valley are taking care of things. Right now. Nobody has to worry about any of it. I can tell you that much. We are on top of it."

"So, to date three people have been killed?" the reporter asked, nodding to his cameraman to get a closer shot. "You are saying that a mountain lion definitely is responsible for killing three people?"

The mayor now began to rethink his decision to talk to the press and was literally backtracking, looking over his shoulder, trying to see where he had parked his car. The reporter and his crew followed him step for step. "We...we will have an official statement soon," the mayor announced, turning to hurry to his car.

The cameraman cut him off and was shoving the camera directly into his face, while the reporter peppered him with questions. The other officials had scattered across the small parking lot. There was a mad dash for the exit. Rachel shook her head and was happy she had hung back, still hoping that the reporter didn't know who she was or what she looked like. Her name was already out there in several news reports. Anonymity was vital now. In order to complete her job she was going to have to remain behind the scenes.

"What happens when and if there is another attack?" the reporter persisted, shoving his microphone under the mayor's nose. "Is there a contingency plan? Are more people going to die?"

"Don't be..." the mayor started to say but thought better of it, flustered, as he scrambled to get in his car.

"Get this shot," the reporter said in a hushed tone. "Mr. Mayor, are you going to be attending the next funeral if there is one?"

"No comment," the mayor muttered, then he jammed his car into reverse and backed up, almost running over the girl handling the boom mic. He gave the reporter a disgusted look, then drove away, squealing the tires as he went.

"Fuck this," the reporter spat out, handing his mic to an assistant. "We've got to score on this, you hear me," he exclaimed to no one in particular. "I think this is going to go off real soon."

I hope not, Rachel was thinking, as her cell dinged. She could see it was from the ME's office. She read the text, then read it again. Is he kidding? The county wanted to know if she could tag along with the hunting outfit that had been hired when they track down the cougar. She thought about it for a moment. This way maybe I can make sure they don't kill the wrong cat, she told herself. These idiots are going to kill whatever mountain lion they come across, so I might be able to reduce the slaughter. She texted back that she would make herself available.

The next day, after Rachel had made arrangements back at her college for her absences, she drove to Camp Verde before daylight. On a side street right off Finnie Flat Road, she found the address for: Hunting Incorporated. Are they kidding? she thought, sitting in her car for a moment and looking up at the large sign over the door to a small storefront, trying to get enough resolve to go through with what she was about to do. These people are the types that I have hated all my life, she reminded herself, gripping the steering wheel tighter. She didn't know how she was going to be able to, side by side, pursue a wild animal with the intent of eliminating it.

Sitting next to her was another outsider, also unsure of his decision to go along on the hunt. Anton had been alerted of the hunt by a friend of his parents who worked at the police department in Sedona. To his surprised, he had, through some favors and back channel finagling, managed to land a spot on the hunt in order for him to document the officially sanctioned event as the photographer of record. Not that he wasn't qualified. He had worked on government projects before with National Geographic, as well as some European projects too. He was sitting there deciding on what cameras to include in his kit when Rachel drove up and parked next to him. He had glanced her way once but was too preoccupied to notice her.

Now, together, they got out of their cars and stood there looking up at the sign and its big block letters, with small silhouettes in black of the type of game they hunted across the bottom, Since 1990 as a bona fide had been added in the corner. "This is really happening," she mumbled, drawing a stare from Anton. He looked away, then turned back and asked, "Are you here for the hunt?" Their cars were the only ones there, except for a 4X4 truck bespattered with mud. There was no sign of anyone around and the storefront was mostly dark.

"Are you a reporter?" she wanted to know, afraid for the worst, fearing that some enterprising journalist had stumbled on her and was going to write about it.

He laughed and announced in a sardonic tone of voice: "I'm the official photographer of this horror show."

"Why?"

He looked at her quizzically, letting her question tumble around in his brain for a moment. He didn't know. There wasn't a ready answer to her question. Like everyone else in the valley he had been following the story, practically the only story anybody was talking about. After all, three people had died. Rumors had increased the death count to ten, fifteen, more, as everyone heard from someone else that they were told the authorities were trying to keep the true number secret so as not to alarm the local communities. Anton, who was relegated by circumstances, to staying on in Sedona for at least a little while, thought he wanted to take advantage of a possible career boost. Photographing the developing saga would be a good diversion.

"I like the outdoors," he joked, smiling at her, hoping that he wasn't going to, at the last minute, be excluded from the hunt. "You?"

"Great," she muttered, walking over to the office and trying the door. The door was unlocked, so she walked inside, hoping to get away from the strange man outside, who she was sure was there to dig up some details about the hunt.

A moment later Anton walked in too, carrying his camera bag, with a camera around his neck. He called out: "Anybody home?" They heard a man in the back call out for them to make themselves at home, that there was some coffee behind the counter. Rachel had expected to find a taxidermy horror story, dozens of stuffed animals propped up for the prospective customer to marvel at, a teaser, something that they had to look forward to when they wanted to add to their personal home decor. Instead, she saw a few large maps of the area on the walls and several photos of the owners holding their hunting rifles in mostly innocuous poses.

Rachel and Anton exchanged glances, then he went for some coffee, motioning if she wanted any. She shook her head no. Then they heard barking in the distance, growing closer and closer. A man poked his head in from a side door and told them the dogs were there and they would be "gettin' movin'" any minute.

"I guess he knows we are supposed to be here," she said, more to herself than to Anton.

"Seems like it," he said, gulping down his coffee. "Should be an adventure."

A man came in the front door, eyed them suspiciously for a moment, then muttered hello, and slipped through the side door. A moment later he stepped back in the office and stated: "I sure hope you guys aren't from one of those animals rights groups, here to protest the hunt." The two of them assured him they weren't. He looked them up and down for a moment, then announced: "Dress warm. We are going go be bouncing around on ATV's and it can get pretty cold out there." He grinned at them and closed the door behind him.

"O-kay," Rachel said, laughing.

"My name's Anton, by the way," he said to her, holding out his hand. "I guess we are going to be spending the day together so we might as well introduce ourselves."

She looked at him for a moment, noticing for the first time that he wasn't bad looking, medium height, with slightly longish hair that was poking out from underneath a faded baseball cap. He seemed friendly enough, and harmless. "Rachel," she said, shaking his hand.

"Are you a reporter or something?" he wanted to know, fingering the lens cap on his camera.

"Something," she replied, smiling. "I'm a biologist."

"A what?" he exclaimed, confused.

"Yeah, you heard right. I am here to check out whatever these guys kill today...make sure it's the right mountain lion. The one's that doing the killing," she explained reluctantly, trying not to reveal just how repugnant she thought her specialized job was.

"Damn," he muttered. "I thought I had a fucked up job to do," he added, holding up his hands and mouthing out an apology for his choice of words. "Is it me, or do you get a feeling that what we are doing is insane?"

They both laughed and she suddenly thought that this stranger might be able to help her get through the day. Both of them seemed to be on the same wavelength. He too was uncomfortable being around a group of people who had a livelihood that was centered around hunting down animals and killing them.

"Have you done a lot of wildlife photography? Is that why they picked you?" she asked him, hoping that the hunt would just get underway.

"Not really," he admitted, shrugging. "I grew up around here and have some connections," he explained. "It's not like I'm not a professional photographer though. I just concentrate on other, like, aspects of the field. You know, fashion, commercial stuff, and some conceptual things too. I've been working over in Europe lately," he said defensively, as if she were questioning his professional status.

"This is all uncharted territory," she offered, smiling at him, looking at the side door and then back outside at the dark street through the window. "Ever hunted before?" she suddenly asked.

"Me, no way," he said, forcing a laugh. "I was brought up in Sedona," he continued, as if that precluded him from ever being a hunter.

"That must have been weird," she told him, trying to not sound judgmental, even though it was the common sentiment he heard whenever he told people where he was from.

"How so?" he asked, just to get her reaction. "Just kidding. Everybody has the same reaction when I tell them where I was born. I'm used to it."

"Sorry, didn't mean to, you know, insult you or anything," she quickly said. "Pretty place."

"Yeah," he agreed, and they both laughed together.

"Saddle up!" someone yelled into the office, swinging the door open and motioning for them to follow him. They went out through the back door, on into an alleyway behind the building, where they could just make out a truck with a half dozen dogs loaded into cages in the truck bed. "You guys can ride with me," the man announced, leading them over to another truck that was towing a trailer with several ATV's loaded on back. "If you want, you can ride with Jimmy but he smells like them dogs, so maybe not." He laughed and Jimmy told him to go fuck himself. "Let's get this hunt going then."

The truck was a dual seat type so Anton offered to sit in the back so he could take photos along the way. Rachel climbed in the front seat, which smelled of dried mud laced with horse dung and stale cigarette smoke. Next to her in the seat was, after she took a closer look, a night vision scope, military grade. It was laying on top of a small stack of wilderness maps and an ordinary road atlas. In the back seat she heard Anton rifling through his camera bag, as he finally selected another long focal lens and began attaching it to another camera back.

The driver, who had introduced himself hastily as they were getting in the truck, was humming to himself, while they headed up I17. Sunrise was still a couple hours away and the darkness of the valley, where only a few stray sources of illumination in the distance lighted the way, penetrated all around them as they sped up the highway. For some reason, she felt nervous and didn't really know why. The whole situation made her uneasy. It had been a long while since she went into the wilderness with anyone else. Her research was almost always a solitary pursuit and she had grown to like it that way.

"Hollis," Anton said from the backseat, "how long is it gonna take to get to where we are going?"

"That's an open ended question," the driver replied, then laughed, continuing to hum to himself. "Not enough variables for me to answer," Hollis said over his shoulder, adding, "if you no what I mean."

In the semi-darkness of the truck cab, Rachel and Anton exchanged looks, and she asked, "How did you decide where to start the hunt from?"

Hollis thought for a moment, reaching over to adjust the heat pouring into the cab and answered: "Trade secret."

"A what?" Anton asked, leaning forward in his seat.

"He said trade secret," Rachel interjected, trying not to get an edge to her voice. Turning to Hollis, she stated: "Three kill sites had to have made it difficult, huh."

"You might say that," he said, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel along with his humming. "We'll get 'em," he then declared, effectively ending the conversation.

They drove on for another hour, while they left the paved highway and started down half graded forest roads. Hollis stopped to consult a map and change into four wheel drive, consulting with his partner in the other truck on his cell phone for a moment. They could hear the dogs barking when they stopped, sensing the hunt was about to begin. Rachel had so many questions to ask but Hollis had essentially shut down all conversation. She doubted she was going to have a discussion of any kind with them anyway. She now knew that they had been thrust on the hunters and Hollis and Travis didn't agree with the arrangement.

Finally, after what seemed like a very long drive, they stopped. The very first rays of sunlight were beginning to cascade over the mountain range along the rim. It was cold, a typical early Spring day in the valley, that would eventually give way to a pleasantly warm day by afternoon. Rachel didn't have any idea why they had selected this area to start the hunt. It was miles away from any of the kill sites. Admittedly, she didn't know much about hunting technique or habits but picking any location at random because it was within the range of a large cougar seemed counterproductive and almost guaranteed to bag the wrong animal.

"What's going on?" Anton whispered to her when they had gotten out of the truck and were standing waiting to see what came next. "I haven't been on many hunts before--actually none--but does this seem normal to you?"

Rachel looked around to make sure they couldn't overhear her, then replied, "Don't ask me. I'm a biologist. I'm all about saving wildlife. All I know is these guys don't want us here. I only hope this doesn't go from bad to worse."

"What do you mean by that?" Anton wanted to know, as he doubled checked to see if they were in earshot. "These are legitimate hunters--right? I mean they do this for a living. I saw their website--for what's that's worth. It looked like they had tracked down plenty of cougars before. Did you happen to see their website? Borderline crazy. People pay them for this experience."

Rachel snorted at his last comment and exclaimed, "They track down game with a pack of dogs. Fox hunts in England were more humane."

"Ever driven an ATV before?" Hollis suddenly asked, appearing out of the dark gloom like an aparition.

"Me? Yeah, a couple times," Anton answered, looking at Rachel for a moment.

"Good, you drive one...take her with you...while I drive the other one," he explained. "Travis is going to go up ahead with the dogs, pick up the scent, work it, then we will follow along after him. Got that?"

"Got it," Anton told him, not able to come up with anything else to say.

"I'm gonna off load them now, so stand back," Hollis informed them. "I don't want you guys to get hurt out here. Damn it! Listen, I gotta get you two to sign some release forms. I got them in the truck. Forgot to get you to do it back at the office."

"Already did that," Rachel told him. "They were supposed to have been faxed to you by the county."

"Oh yeah, right. Let me call Jeanie to see if she got them. Hope she's up by now," Hollis mumbled to himself, as he tried to call on his cell phone. He tried to dial out a few times but he kept losing the signal. "Fuck this," he spat out, walking over to a small hill and walking up to a higher point. They could see him silhouetted against the rising sun and hear him talking.

In the distance they could hear Travis shouting out commands, as a few of the dogs barked in response. They could see him stopping here and there, as he trained his flashlight on the ground, checking for prints. A cold breeze was blowing down the canyon, being sucked down towards the warmer air of the valley from the Flagstaff area. It was an almost daily phenomenon, a reverse inversion, warmer air drawing down the colder layer from a higher altitude.

"I wish I'd brought my other lens," Anton complained aloud, as he held up one of his cameras, trying to gauge whether there was enough light to take a shot of Travis and the dogs scrambling up a nearby hillside.

"She got 'em," Hollis called out to them. "Let me get the ATV's off the truck. Looks like Travis is on to something already."

"Yeah, I bet," Rachel said under her breath.

After the ATV's were unloaded and Hollis had given Anton a quick primer on how to handle the vehicle, they mounted up, with the hunter in the lead. "Easy does it," Hollis announced, staring at Anton. "I don't want you drivin' up my ass--hear me?"

Anton snickered and replied, "I got it."

"Let Travis do his thing out there then we will catch up," Hollis told them. "This might take some doing. And we are gonna have to walk some too. These things will only take us so far. I hope you two got on good boots because you are gonna need 'em."

Rachel and Anton both looked down at their shoes, then at each other, laughing. "North Face," she said, pointing at her hiking shoes.

"Vasque," he said, grinning. "Top of the line."

"Really," she mused, laughing, "and so clean."

"Oh, they are supposed to get dirty, I didn't know that," he shot back, looking back down at his shoes, admiring.

They then heard Hollis' two way radio crackle to life and a garbled voice tell him the tracks lead towards the northwest. Hollis walked over to his truck and pulled out a map, spreading it out on the hood of the truck. There was barely enough light to read the print. Shining his flashlight on the map, he traced his finger up and down a few times, grunting. He spoke into the two way radio then checked with a GPS device.

"Hope you like mountain climbing," he declared, grinning at them. "This road here will take us only up so far. It's an old mining road that is--at least the last time I was out here, caving in three quarters of the way up that away." He pointed off in a vague direction. "We ride as far as it'll take us then bushwhack the rest of the way. Travis is already on to 'em."

"Already," Rachel exclaimed, incredulous.

"Let me get a few shots," Anton shouted out, as Hollis started up one of the ATV's, focusing on the gun mount on the front of the all terrain vehicle, where a rifle was attached. "I got to write this down," he told Hollis, pulling out a small notebook and scribbling furiously in it for a moment. "What you got there? A Remington 750. Got it."

"You ready?" Hollis wanted to know, looking in the distance, scanning the steep slopes all around them. "Let's get movin'."

Rachel waited for Anton to put his camera away then put on the helmet Hollis had issued them. She reluctantly placed her helmet on and tried not to laugh. "What's that thing?" she asked, pointing at his helmet.

"This? a helmet cam," he replied, grinning. "I'm prepared. I will be filming everything, in HD," he explained. "We're making a movie--didn't they tell you?" he joked.

"Right," she said, shaking her head. "This might be the dumbest thing I've ever done."

"You're kidding. Not even close," he sang out, climbing on the ATV. "Come on, we are wasting the good light."

Up ahead, in a cloud of dust, they could see Hollis speeding along, going faster than they felt was safe. Anton hadn't been on an ATV since High School when he would occasionally go on outings with friends to less frequented sites around Red Rock Country. He was keeping a close eye on the road conditions, not wanting to spin out or turn the vehicle over. The old mining road had quickly turned into a long upward climb, with a precipitous drop off on both sides. It was obvious the trail had been built when the miners were using mules for transportation since it was getting progressively narrower as they went along. Up. Higher. He guessed the drop off to be over two hundred feet or more. Although he wasn't particularly afraid of heights, he was still uncomfortable traveling over a disappearing tract with a crumbling surface.

Hollis stopped up ahead a hundred yards or so and was talking on his radio. They soon caught up with him and Rachel released her grip around Anton's waist, embarrassed that she had resorted to holding on because she was frightened she would tumble off the back of the ATV. Anton was concentrating so much on the route upwards that he hadn't even noticed her death grip.

"You two okay back there?" Hollis called out, as they inched closer to where he had stopped. "Don't wanta take a slider off of here," he exclaimed, pointing over the edge. "Long way down."

"No shit," Anton said in a whisper. "It looks like this trail or whatever the hell it is might be giving out on us," he offered, trying to sound nonchalant, like they hadn't just traversed a road that was getting closer and closer to being almost a ninety degree angle.

"Maybe," Hollis muttered, taking out a map from a large pocket on his hunting vest. He unfolded it then tapped it several times with his finger. He spoke into the radio again but they couldn't hear what he was saying over the idling ATV's. "A little further then we dismount. That's when the fun starts."

"More fun than this?" Rachel said to Anton, who laughed.

They climbed further up the mountain, another indescript peak abutting the Sycamore Wilderness, a vast area of forest land only backpackers ever saw up close. Rachel had backpacked the region a few years before, spending two weeks in the field during some research junket funded by a private organization. It was a place of mysterious beauty, removed, with some stunning views of rock outcroppings and jagged massifs. A deep canyon with a dried up river bed bisected the area, strewn with outsized boulders seemingly placed there by an angry divinity, or so native American legend would have it.

Unlike many of her colleagues, Rachel didn't amend her studies to accommodate any cultural predilections. The American Indian maintained a link to their ancestral land but she kept that aspect out of her specific purlieu, hoping to develop a consistent pattern when she catalogued data that avoided any margins altered by outside influences. It made her unpopular at times but she ignored the immediate ramifications as she went about her work.

Similarly, Anton had encountered problems early on with his photography work, often being at odds with local custom. One year, while still in college, he had even caused a breech with the local government on the Hopi reservation by photographing forbidden subject matter. They had wanted to confiscate his camera equipment as punishment. If not for a friend with connections in the Hopi community he would have been fined heavily and escorted off the reservation. An amiable solution to the infraction had been worked out and he had been able to leave, minus the hundred or so photos he had taken, forced to wipe them off his film card.

They hadn't gone very far when Hollis pulled to a stop. He got off the ATV and checked with his GPS unit for a moment. Taking out his expensive Nikon binoculars, something Anton noticed right away, making him think that the hunting business must be very successful, he trained them on a spot on a far ridge line. Rachel stiffly climbed off and double checked to see that her pack hadn't fallen off. Her instruments and tools were in a case tucked away in the pack and she was going to need them to take samples when and if they killed a mountain lion. She was dreading having to complete her specialized task, the one, vital step in ending the nightmare back in the valley.

"Would the same cougar be all the way up here?" Anton asked her, looking back in the direction of the Verde Valley. "Seems like a long way to go to kill some people--doesn't it?"

She ignored him for a minute while she looked up at where Hollis was looking through his binoculars, then replied, "A male can cover a lot of area. I'm not sure about this though. If I had to bet I would have said he was concentrated the other way, to the east."

"On the Rim?" Anton wanted to know.

"Yeah," she said, adding, "but that's my guess. Nothing scientific about it."

"These guys know their business but...man...I don't know," Anton stated, frowning at her. "They could kill all the cats around here before they get the right one. That kinda sucks."

"Yeah, they might decimate the whole population before it's over," she said forlornly.

"Looks like we're hoofing it from here," Hollis announced, grinning. "Let's see what those expensive boots of yours can do," he exclaimed, pointing at Anton's pristine shoes, untouched by any of the famous red rock dirt.

Anton trained his camera at his feet for a moment and fired off a photo, then declared, "For a before and after photo series." Then he switched his Go pro camera from the helmet to a head strap, telling Rachel, "I'm recording everything."

Hollis snorted then grabbed his Remington 750 off the ATV, checking his ammo supply in his vest. Anton snapped off some more photos of him then turned his camera on Rachel, as she slung her backpack on one shoulder and checked her watch. The morning was waning and she knew the cat they were pursuing would have been in route back to its den, having completed its hunting for the day. Then again, she told herself, if this is the rogue cat he will be unpredictable. She knew that she had to overturn in her mind all of her preconceived notions about mountain lion habits. If she was unable to do that then her value to the hunt was going to be reduced. With Hollis and Travis, they were locked into linear thinking, relying on their previous knowledge of big game hunts, where the rules seldom varied, as they relied on the dogs to lead them to the prize.

They trudged up, slipping on the loose dirt, avoiding pear cactus and brush as they went. It wasn't long before all of them were breathing heavily and sweat was building up under their jackets. As usual, the cold morning air was being replaced by a subtle, dry heat that seemed to flow down the canyon. Overhead they could see a red tail hawk circling. After a half hour of climbing, Hollis stopped and took a water break. While he consulted with Travis over the radio, Rachel sucked on her hydration tube, marveling at how beautiful the wilderness always seemed to be even after seeing it so many times. Anton took some landscape shots, telling her they would make some nice stock photographs, before training his camera back on Hollis and Rachel.

Then they could hear the dogs barking as the sound seemed so close. Hollis told them the noise was carrying down through the canyon and wasn't as close as they might think it was. Anton groaned, realizing they were going to have to hike on, probably for miles, and he was developing blisters on his feet already from the new shoes. Rachel looked up for a moment and watched the contrails behind a jet flying across the sky.

"Travis, don't let him get over the ridge--you hear me?" Hollis ordered over the radio. "Damn, sometimes he ain't got no sense." He glassed the far ridge line for a moment with his binoculars, muttering under his breath, still breathing heavily from the exertion of the hike.

"I'm hungry," Anton announced to no one in particular, digging in his pocket for a candy bar he had brought along. The chocolate was just beginning to melt in the packaging. He popped most of the gooey treat into his mouth, grinning at Rachel with chocolate all over his teeth.

"That's a good look for you," she teased, laughing.

"Want some?" he asked, holding out the remainder of the candy bar.

"I don't think so," she told him, frowning. "I'm good."

"Oh, you're a snob," he taunted, continuing to grin. "Probably got some organic wilderness hiking bar in your expensive pack. Right? Full of vitamins and minerals, maybe even made of tofu. No, soy. I know, one of those bars designed just for women...with designer ingredients that give females a hormonal boost."

"Are you for real?" she asked, making a face at him.

"Let me see what you got," he demanded. "Come on."

She laughed and exclaimed, "I don't have to show you what I brought along."

"See," he teased, "Luna bar--that's what they call them. Made especially for women. They come with a dose of midol."

"You're ridiculous," she declared, staring at him.

"What flavor?"

"Flavor?" she replied. "I don't even know. I just grab it out of my kitchen cabinet."

"Yeah, you know," he continued to ridicule. "Gluten free undoubtedly."

She reached in the side pocket of her pack and pulled out a bar, holding it up for him to see, then said, "Satisfied?"

He laughed and said: "I still prefer my Snickers bar."

"You two ladies finished gabbing?" Hollis wanted to know. "Time to push on. We got to hurry now."

Anton readjusted the video camera strapped on his head, after checking the battery level. Rachel shoved the bar in the cargo pocket of her pants for easy access, thinking that they weren't going to be stopping much after this. In front of them Hollis consulted the GPS unit again and moved off in a northwest direction. As they hiked on they could hear the barking coming and going, filtering down the canyon walls in waves. She was thinking that the cat was going to lose them as soon as it cleared the ridge, where the dogs would have a difficult time keeping up over the rocky terrain. Part of her felt glad about this but the other part wanted to end this today. Now. No more killings. The fear that had gripped the valley would be over.

Further on, as they were crossing a narrow wash, Anton blurted out: "Stop! Hold on a minute." He pulled out one of his SLR cameras and kneeled down to take a shot of a clearly defined print in the sand floor of the run off.

"Damn, boy, it's just a cat paw," Hollis declared, irritated. "We got to keep moving."

"Let me check this," Rachel stated, pulling out a ruler to measure the print, as she too took a photo with her cell phone camera.

Anton snorted at her camera phone and asked, "What's that for your scrap book?"

She ignored him for a moment and recorded the size of the print, then replied, "It's probably a male but--"

"If you two want to stay here and fall in love, that's okay, but I'm movin' on," Hollis said angrily. "The cat's not gonna wait for us."

Pushing through the brush, with the thorns scratching at any exposed skin, they soon crested a rise in the land and could see Travis in the distance, maybe a mile away. The plaintive howls of the dogs told Hollis that they had treed the quarry. He immediately got on the radio and contacted his partner. Travis, in between breaths, asked him if he wanted him to "take him down."

Rachel overheard the conversation and shouted out: "No!"

"Miss biologist here says for you to wait until we get there," Hollis told him, eyeing Rachel for a moment.

Anton moved closer to make sure his video camera was picking up one of the decisive moments of the hunt, telling them: "Speak clearly."

Hollis looked over at him, then said, "Don't. Get. In. The. Fucking. Way."

Rachel laughed, as Anton backed up, then stated, "I want to examine the mountain lion before you finish your job."

"Examine?" Hollis spat out, smirking. "Are you gonna climb up that tree and hold its paw?"

"Funny," she said, staring him down. "That's the reason I came along, you know. The county ordered it. Here I am. Let me do my job."

"Job," Hollis sneered, rolling his eyes. "Girl, there is only one job to do and that is to catch the animal that's killing people. Got that?"

"Cool down, you two," Anton interjected, stepping in between them. "Hollis, we have to make sure you don't go and kill every mountain lion in Arizona. Am I right about that or what? She's here to help out. Innocent wildlife has to be protected." A thought suddenly occurred to him and he realized he had the camera running and his movements were going to make the confrontation nothing but a blur because he kept moving his head back and forth as he turned from Rachel to Hollis and back again. He stepped back so the camera could record the two of them and continued by saying: "You have your job, Hollis, and she has hers."

"If you stick that camera in my face one more time I'm gonna make you eat it," he threatened, pointing his finger at Anton.

"I hear that and I am backing up," Anton exclaimed, holding his hands up in front of him. "Let's remember here, I have a job to do too."

Hollis turned and pressed on, hiking at an even faster pace. Behind him, Rachel and Anton scrambled to catch up. The mile gap between them and the dogs shortened dramatically. They could see that Travis had his Winchester 70 unslung and was holding it, prepared to shoot if he needed to. There was a cacophony of bleating, barks, and howls, while the dogs circled around the base of a half bare pinon tree. Out of breath, they approached the tree and could see a cougar perched on one of the higher branches of the tree. The cat didn't seem agitated, maybe slightly perturbed, confident that the dogs couldn't get to him.

"We got lucky," Travis informed Hollis. "If he had decided to go west then I don't think the dogs could have kept up over that terrain." He pointed off in the direction of a near vertical mountain side. "The dogs turned him though."

"Good work," Hollis told him, slapping him on the back.

"You wanta shoot him?" Travis asked, hoping that he might get the nod.

Hollis looked over at Rachel for a moment, then replied, "Naw, she's got to check 'em out first."

"Do what?" Travis asked, incredulous.

"Ask her," Hollis said, jerking his finger in Rachel's direction.

Anton circled around the tree, firing off photos from every conceivable angle. Then he laid on the ground and took a shot looking straight up at the cougar, which, with a predator's aplomb, actually yawned. A few of the dogs kept leaping up the side of the tree trunk, growling, slowly growing more unruly because their inability to attack the wild animal just out of reach.

Rachel then pulled out of her backpack a tranquilizer gun she had borrowed from a colleague. Hollis immediately objected, telling her that there was no way she was going to bring the cat down out of the tree so she could just let him go. She told him that was exactly what she was going to do. They started arguing, pointing their fingers in each other's faces, while Anton and Travis looked on, shocked.

"That pea shooter ain't gonna do shit, girl," Hollis declared wildly, waving his arms around. "The next thing you know that damn cat is gonna fall right on your head."

"I'll take the risk," she sneered back at him, preparing her gun with a dart to immobilize the cougar so she could do her field work on the animal. "Why did you think I was out here for anyway--a fun outing?"

"I don't give a fuck why you are out here, girl," he angrily stated. "This is my hunt and we go by my rules. Got that?"

"Hey, Hollis, maybe we should let her do what she came out here to do," Travis protested.

"Shut the fuck up," Hollis said angrily. "Just get those dogs under control."

"I'll shoot the damn cougar myself," Travis declared, holding up his rifle for a moment, "but we should think about this. That's all I'm saying."

"Is that a tom up in that tree?" Hollis demanded to know, staring at Rachel. She nodded yes. "Then we legally can hunt it. Am I right on that?" He looked over at Travis, who threw up his hands. "Easy decision. All you are going to do is make things more difficult."

"Do you plan on shooting every mountain lion in northern Arizona?" she wanted to know.

"If I have to," he shot back.

"You're an idiot," she muttered, continuing to prepare her tranquilizer dart.

"Do you even know how to use that thing?" Hollis asked her sarcastically. "Look out, Travis, she might shoot you by mistake," he mocked.

"Look, this might be the same cat," she exclaimed, trying to control her anger. "Then again his hunting range might over lap with another cougar. What that means is--"

"I know what it means," he interrupted, exhaling, as he waved his hand at Anton to get the camera out of his face. "Travis, what'd I tell you? Get the dogs back. Now!"

Just as Travis had secured the dogs on their leashes, the mountain lion, slipped quickly down the tree branch and bolted, jumping down the sloped terrain. Rachel barely had time to turn around before Hollis had leveled his rifle, aimed, and fired off a round. The cougar collapsed almost instantly and tumbled down the steep hillside, before finally stopping up against a large boulder embedded in the soil.

Rachel was too stunned to say anything. Anton instinctually kept his finger on the shutter button, firing off a string of photos, capturing the entire sequence. The dogs howled, pulling at their leashes.

"Pretty good shot," Travis called out.

Looking at Rachel, Hollis said, "Shit happens."

To Rachel's dismay, her official duty had now turned into a necropsy. The sudden turn of events prevented her from placing blame. The cougar, at that point, might have escaped. Their mission's description, although non-specific, certainly detailed the elimination of the threat to the valley. Hollis, slightly chastened by his actions under the circumstances, didn't gloat, but instead went into hunter mode and began arranging the transport of the mountain lion back to Prescott, where Rachel would complete her work.

As Anton stood over her shoulder, shooting photo after photo, she completed a quick examination, oddly hoping that this was the rogue cat, so no others would be hunted down and shot. The scare gripping the valley would be over. Hikers, tourists, residents could get back to their lives, unafraid. The news teams could close down their mini-operations. No talking heads on TV would be giving updates on the latest killing, complete with stock tape of mountain lions in the background. Go-to wildlife experts wouldn't be needed anymore, with their wildly inaccurate accounts of forest ecosystems. Campers would return, along with other outdoor enthusiasts. Best of all, Rachel would be able to get back to living her normal life.

Chapter 8 The Call

Rachel got the call while she was performing the necropsy. Her cell phone vibrated in her pocket, as she was examining the shoulder wound on the mountain lion, after having weighed and measured the cat. The ME agreed to participate even though it wasn't his area of expertise. Many of the formalities and rules had been abandoned in order to solve the pressing problem, which was threatening to spiral out of control at any minute. TV crews were materializing in the valley more and more everyday, all led by ambitious personalities wanting to grab onto anything that might further their careers, even if it meant sensationalizing a story at the expense of the people who had lost loved ones.

She was going to let the call go to voice mail but the ME told her to go ahead and take it because he wanted a break anyway. They were locked away in an examining room deep in the coroner's office with policemen standing guard outside the door. All the people in a position of authority in Yavapai County were adamant about maintaining security and that no leaks would get out to the press. Rachel had been warned, twice, by the County Administration, speaking for the Board of Supervisors, not to divulge any of her findings from the examination. By now, after a few weeks of the ongoing problem, she was used to dealing with the bureaucratic maze, from the Sheriff himself to area command representatives, a Captain or two from a couple divisions, the supervisor of the Eastern Area Command, and a rude Sergeant leading up the County Forest patrol. She was doing her best to tune them all out at this stage.

The results of the examination, where the representative from the county media department hoped to tell the world the good news sooner rather than later, were eagerly anticipated but only if they brought good news. Rachel felt some of the county bureaucrats wanted her to alter the data, make it palatable for everyone involved.

"Who's calling?" she answered her phone in an annoyed tone of voice.

"Having a good day are we," the voice sang out, chuckling.

She paused for a moment, trying to place the voice, checking the number on her phone again, not recognizing it, she replied, "I'm kind of busy."

"It's Anton," the voice told her. There was silence on the line. "You know, your hunting buddy."

Realizing who it was, she finally said, "Oh, how are you doing?"

At first he wasn't sure whether or not she was happy to be hearing from him. They had exchanged numbers right after the hunt, with him telling her that they might have to become allies in the whole unfolding charade, needing each other in order to withstand the onslaught of mounting press, good and bad. She had been non-committal but he took that to be part of her usual personality, reserved and quiet. Now, he wasn't so sure.

"I...I...listen, I just thought you might want to get together for some coffee or something," he offered hesitantly, suddenly feeling nervous about calling her. "I mean if you need a shoulder to cry on, I am here for you," he joked. "This whole thing is pretty stressful."

Rachel looked over at the table where the mountain lion lay on its side. It was truly a beautiful specimen, a full grown tom, weighing in at over a hundred and fifty pounds. Obviously it had been feeding well, she thought, then said into her phone, "Might be a good idea, I guess."

"Want me to come down to Prescott?" he asked, wondering what tack to take with her.

"Fire up into the frying pan," she quipped, laughing. "Today?"

Taken by surprise, figuring that she would want to schedule it for later on in the week, he answered: "Sure."

They agreed to meet at a small cafe in downtown Prescott. Anton got off the phone and smiled, now realizing that he had more or less set up a date. When he called he wasn't even sure what he had in mind. His last romantic encounter had been over two months before, with a Dutch girl he met through a photo agency. The romance hadn't lasted, wilting under his grueling schedule and her indifference about maintaining a relationship with a foreigner who drifted in and out of Amsterdam regularly.

Rachel put her cell phone back in her lab coat pocket, then said aloud: "What was that?" She had recently ended a two year relationship with a fellow professor at ASU, which had terminated on unfriendly terms. Their timelines didn't mesh, so she told him one day when he had asked her whether or not she was going to be staying on in Phoenix. She didn't know, she had told him, being as honest as she could be. Her career might take her anywhere, was her explanation. There were a few quarrels, fights really, that escalated quickly into verbal crossfire, complete with recriminations and regrettable comments. What they had together sputtered to an end one day after a home football game, another flashpoint of mis-matched interests. On the way back from the college stadium she had asked him to let her out at the next light after they had traded barbs about some inane disagreement. She took the light rail back to her apartment and knew it was ended.

Anton, the roving photographer, with the odd sense of humor and too long hair, hadn't even triggered a response from her. Am I so engrossed in my work that I have a blind spot? she thought, as she returned to the cougar to complete the necropsy. The ME came back in the room, rubbing his hands together, telling her that the world as they knew it hung in the balance. They laughed together, while she took out her instruments to see if she could scientifically match a rogue cat to the crimes.

"The data doesn't work," she told the Sheriff, who had barged into the room a while later, with two deputies in tow.

"Are you positive?" the Sheriff asked, staring at her and then at the mountain lion on the examining table.

"I've just spent over two hours going over the stats and even though we don't have the blood work back yet I am 99 percent sure," she declared, glancing at the ME for a moment, hoping that he might chime in with some support. He shrugged and looked away. "Look, here are the measurements right here," she explained holding up her tablet she used for all of her research. "Claw marks from victim one and two rule out almost immediately that this isn't the same cougar. Then there are the bite marks too. The killer cat is bigger."

"Bigger!" the Sheriff almost shouted out. "Look at that damn thing. It's huge."

"It's a good size tom but not as big, believe it or not," she explained. "The one we are looking for is probably about ten to twenty pounds heavier, probably the biggest one I've ever come across."

"The shit is going to hit the fan now," he muttered, looking at his two assistants. "Now I gotta tell them we aren't out of the woods yet. This is going to be one big shitstorm."

"We can wait for the lab work if you want to but I am relatively certain this isn't over yet," she announced, running her hand along the flank of the dead cougar. "Killed for nothing," she said in a whisper.

"Got any ideas about how we can catch this thing?" the Sheriff asked, looking first at her and then at the ME. "Anything?"

The ME held up his hands as if to say don't ask me and Rachel replied, "Pray."

"Oh shit, that reminds me," the Sheriff suddenly exclaimed. "We got those Indian Shamans coming in today or tomorrow. More hassles."

"What are they going to do?" she asked, frowning at the Sheriff.

"Who knows? I think they plan on getting the spirits involved, maybe appease the mountain lion somehow," he told her, laughing uneasily, unsure how he should represent the native American contribution to the problem. "At this stage, I'll tell you, I will take any and all suggestions. If they want to do a moondance or whatever and it'll stop this craziness going on then I'm all for it. I will strip down buck naked and run down 260 if that'll scare the cougar away," he joked, chuckling. One of the deputies told him he was bound to scare somebody and they all laughed, like a pressure valve had been pressed.

Rachel laughed along with them and then said, "I'll keep analyzing the cat's hunting patterns to see if I can get an idea of where he might head next but don't expect miracles."

"I guess a miracle is what we need right about now," he stated then left to consult the other county executives about the dreaded press conference they were going to have to set up sooner or later.

Anton was waiting for her when she arrived, seated in the back of the crowded cafe. A slight nervousness seeped in before she realized, like being on a first date can only elicit. He stood up to greet her and she noticed he was wearing some odd European style cap, that he would later on tell he had purchased in Austria. Anton had noticed her when she first walked in and wondered why he hadn't thought she was this attractive the first time they met. She was wearing jeans with a tight sweater that accented her figure. Her short hair was concealed under an ASU baseball cap.

"How did it go?" he asked immediately, waiting for her to slide into the booth.

"Get right to the point--I like that," she mused, glancing around the cafe, not sure if they should be talking about the necropsy in public, fearing that someone might overhear them and cause a panic. Am I overreacting, she wondered. "Not good," she said succinctly, holding her finger up to her mouth to let him know she didn't want to reveal any details in a restaurant setting. He nodded to show that he understood. "I could use some coffee. I don't think I've slept more than a few hours a night in over a week."

Anton motioned for the waitress and she came over to take their order. Rachel told him that she happened to be starving too, besides being sleep deprived, so they ordered lunch. She picked over the menu until she found something that was close to being vegetarian and he apologized for ordering a hamburger. She scolded him good-naturedly. They seemed to be compatible and she attributed it to their shared experience on the hunt, where they were thrown together in an unusual environment and endured together.

"Hollis sends his love," Anton kidded her, telling a story about his return to the hunting office to drop off some photos. "He was still going on about how you were nuts and shouldn't be allowed to go with them again."

"Again!" she exclaimed. "Those two fools are going out again? Are you serious? No. Tell me that's not going to happen."

"Afraid so," he assured her, shaking his head in disbelief. "The county approved another hunt. Maybe this time they will get the right one."

"You're kidding, right? I mean they certainly know how to hunt down a wild animal but whether it'll be the right one...I doubt it," she declared, taking a ginger sip of her hot coffee. "I'm not going along this time. You?"

He thought for a moment, then replied, "I might have to. A contract is a contract."

It felt good to be chatting with someone outside her coterie of friends back in Phoenix, an insular world of academics and "forest types," so her ex boyfriend like to call them. Prescott seemed to be light years away from not only her current hometown but the Verde Valley too. Even though she knew the killing was going to continue, felt it, sensed it, she wanted to forget about the large cougar roaming around seeking out its next kill. Her preliminary findings told her that the cougar would be striking again in less than a week if the data held up.

"I want you to be careful out there when you go with those two idiots," she said to him solemnly, looking at him closely. "They know their business sure but we aren't dealing with a normal cat here."

"What do you mean by that?" he asked her, leaning closer so no one could overhear their conversation.

Rachel looked around for a moment, then replied, "Trust me. This mountain lion is different from any I ever heard of. It doesn't hunt like a normal cat...and I'm not talking about its choice of food."

"I have to tell you a chill just went up my spine," he told her half jokingly. "You make it sound like one of those movies on FX or something. Next thing you are going to tell me is that it has paranormal abilities, like it can read your mind or something."

She forced a grin, then explained, "It likes what it is doing. Like it has an extrinsic pleasure gene built in that makes it want to kill humans."

He looked at her for a moment, then said, "Come on, Rachel. Get serious."

"I am," she stated, nodding for emphasis. "You didn't see the third kill site. I did. It wasn't normal in any way. I won't go into details but--"

"Are you Rachel Winters?" a voice asked behind them and they turned to see a short woman, closer to being a girl, standing there with a cell phone in each hand.

They looked her up and down for a moment, then exchanged looks, before Rachel told her that she was. She told them she worked for Jon Sussman and he wanted to do set up an interview with her. Anton made a face and they in unison stood up and hurriedly paid the check, with the girl following them out the door. Parked outside was a TV camera van, with the satellite dish folded down on top. The girl told her that they could do the interview now, if possible. Then both of her cell phones rang simultaneously and she fielded one and then the other. The small interruption was enough for them to walk away, escaping down a side street.

"My car's over this way," Anton called out, leading her down an alley way. "If we hurry we can ditch them. I mean you didn't want to do the interview--right?"

"Yeah, I wanted to plaster my face all over network television," she shot back, hurrying along beside him.

"Could be your big break," he teased. "Dr. Rachel Winters, biologist extraordinaire. Might have to get an agent and a publicist."

"Hey, jackass, just get me to your car," she shouted back at him, smacking his arm playfully.

"I'll be able to say I knew you when," he sang out, scurrying to start his car.

Rachel looked around at the car, noticing the decorative box of tissue on the console and the bottle of hand moisturizer stuck in the bottle holder, and said, "Nice car."

"It's my mom's," he explained, laughing along with her. "I had a rental but turned it back in when I decided I was going to be staying around the area for a while."

"So, then you are living at home then," she commented, trying to control her sarcasm.

"Yes, I am a momma's boy," he told her, adding, "very funny."

"I didn't say anything," she protested, snickering. "The bond between a mother and son is a special one."

"I can always drive you right back down the street and dropped you off by that satellite truck," he threatened, smirking at her. "How'd that work for you?"

"Okay, okay, I'll shut up about you being a man-boy," she stated, squelching a laugh.

Anton drove her to her car and parked a few spaces down. Downtown Prescott was buzzing with activity. A moment later they saw the TV van drive past and they laughed, happy to have escaped for the time being. He wondered if they were going to sooner or later pursue him as well, even though his only contribution was from a photographer's perspective.

"They are going to probably corner you eventually," he told her, glancing around to make sure they weren't being watched.

"I know," she said, sighing. "I can't imagine where all this is going, can you? I mean what happens when the cougar kills again? The media is going to go nutzo."

"The boys are on the case," he stated, grinning at her.

"The boys?"

"Hollis and Travis," he replied. "The two best hunters in Arizona."

"You know they are talking about patrolling from the air, with helicopters," she informed him. "Heard it yesterday...by one of the deputies. With military personnel. Night vision gear. Sharpshooters. Might even bring in special forces."

"Holy shit," Anton remarked. "I wonder if I can get in on one of those missions."

"You're kidding, right?" she asked him, staring. "I mean that's some bizarre moves by the government."

"People are getting bumped off by a rogue wild animal. Something has to be done," he said defensively.

She scoffed and said, "I guess we could drop a big fucking bomb on the valley."

They sat there in silence for a moment, then he asked in a sardonic tone, "Is this our first disagreement?"

She laughed and replied, "Protecting animals is kinda my life, you know. I really don't want to be a part of some air assault on an animal. Goes against my principles."

"Oh, I get it," he told her. "You got to admit though. Panic is rising, like by the second around here. Besides lives being lost there is the local economy going to shit too. This whole thing is starting to affect everybody."

Rachel thought for a moment, then said, "Oh crap, I forgot. I was supposed to tell one of the media drones whether or not I would be there for the ceremony being held in the valley."

"Ceremony?" Anton mused, glancing at his watch.

"The Indi--native Americans are doing some cleansing. It's suppose to release the cougar's spirit or something, make him stop eating people and go back to deer or his regular diet."

"Oh yeah, the mountain lion is a fleeting spirit that inhabits space and then is gone--poof," he explained. "I remember when I was in High School in Sedona I had a friend who was into all the Indian customs. I think it was the Apaches who think the cougar's growl is a harbinger of death. Well they got that right. Many of the native beliefs thought by wearing the fur or teeth of mountain lions it would give them exceptional hunting skills."

"I'm going to have to devise a plan for dealing with this," she muttered, sighing, looking out the window.

"Ndolkah," Anton announced, looking at her.

"What?"

"I think that's the word for cougar in their language. Not that it helps anything," he said, shrugging.

Rachel got on her cell phone and called the county office, working through the phone tree before getting the right extension. She was referred to a cell phone number and finally got in touch with the media rep, telling her that she wasn't going to be attending the ceremony being held in Sedona. The rep expressed her dismay and tried to change Rachel's mind, telling her that there was going to be some Shamans from several different Indian tribes. She got off the phone as soon as she could to find Anton was on his cell phone checking the internet for any updates on the valley's predicament.

"More bad news?" she wanted to know, fearing the worse.

"Well you will be happy to know some computer wonk in Northern California is doing a," he looked at his phone again for a moment, "correlated analysis using his super charged computer so he can find the cougar. Says it is foolproof. He's apparently plotting all the coordinances and matching them up with weather patterns, data on wildlife in the valley, and other variables. He is working the data stream as we speak. He is a innumercy expert, what ever that is. Shouldn't take long."

They both laughed, and she said, "Next we'll have astrologers and psychics, I guess. I was told a UAV manufacturer has offered to donate the use of one of his things to patrol the sky over the valley."

"A what?"

"Unmanned aerial vehicle, a drone, you know, like they use in Afghanistan," she explained. "Probably best method to monitor the whole Verde Valley but then what are you going to do when and if you see something--like a cougar getting ready to attack somebody? Get on the radio and tell the police to get right over there to save them. Not very effective."

"Like French food?" Anton suddenly asked, smiling at her.
"Do they have French vegetarian food?" she countered.

"My mom, don't laugh, please, owns a restaurant in Sedona. Want to have dinner there?" he asked, trying not to sound nervous.

"You, me, and your mom," she exclaimed, trying not to sound derisive.

He laughed, then said, "She'll be doing the cooking, not chaperoning."

"I guess so," she said, instantly sorry that she sounded so non-committal.

He ignored her lack of enthusiasm and asked: "Are snails considered okay for vegetarians to eat?"

"Ew," she spat out, slapping his arm. "Bring up the menu and I'll decide."

Anton loaded the restaurant's web page and showed her the latest menu. She read it over and agreed to meet him there. Rachel had finished her dissecting and the lab report was being processed. She didn't have to stay in Prescott and had planned on doing an overnighter in the Sedona area to see if she could track where the cat might have set up a den. As elusive as mountain lions could be, she knew it was a long shot but she had to do something, make some effort to locate the rogue cougar that she knew was slated to most likely strike again soon.

Chapter 9 A Decision

There had been very little signs of any turf wars breaking out among the many different official departments in the valley and in the county at large. Not that some toes hadn't been stepped on. A few local mayors had tried to override the county's intransigence and been shut down, even going so far as receiving phone calls from the Governor's office. It was, without question, a public safety issue, but one that was unconventional enough to cause the wheels of government to slow down under the pressure of hazily defined solutions.

Caleb Foster had been biding his time, but keeping a close eye on the developments around the valley. He knew Hollis and Travis and, in fact, had played Little League Baseball with Travis when they were kids. Although he had known both men for a long time he detested them for their livelihood. Hunters who were paid to procure wild animals were beneath contempt to him. Hunting wasn't meant to be a commercial transaction. No one should be escorted into the wild for the express purpose of killing an animal. It went against everything Caleb believed in.

He had heard the news reports and noted where the attacks occurred. Around town he listened to the gossip, the wild accusations and theories about what had happened to those unfortunate victims and what was going to happen next. Caleb knew there was going to be another attack. In the past, he had tracked mountain lion, following them up into highland redoubts, over rocky terrain that was almost impossible to climb. Through the years he had only attempted to kill one cougar. Right before he left for the Army, he was hunting over near the Mazatzal Mountains when he came across some fresh mountain lion spores. Then he found scat in the middle of the trail and knew he was close on the cougar's trail.

At that point he decided to hunt the mountain lion, something he wouldn't ordinarily do. He spent the next three days tracking the cat over varied terrain, up and down, through forest and brush, eventually heading higher and higher up the almost impassable mountains. Only stopping occasionally to get his bearings. Tired and hungry, almost prepared to abandon the hunt, he had finally caught up to the mountain lion on a stretch of open terrain, a knife edge ridge line where the cougar had no where else to escape to. They had stared each other down, not ten feet away from one another. Caleb had been relentless in his pursuit, always on the large male cougar's trail, following, getting closer and closer. Finally, he had caught up to the large cat as it was climbing higher and higher up the steep mountain side.

It was late June and even though they were facing off at an elevation that was over six thousand feet the early summer warmth was bearing down on them in the late afternoon. In a few hours the sun would slip behind the distant mountain range, bringing relief from the rising heat. Caleb felt weak from lack of water and adequate food. As usual, he was hiking in his customary light mode, no cell phone, compass or GPS, only the basics: sleeping bag, small hydration pack, a few baggies of mixed nuts combined with raisins, hunting knife, seven rounds of ammo, rifle, and several cords of his homemade jerky. He had run out of his meager provisions the day before and killed a rabbit for dinner. His stomach ached from having drunk rehydrated water he drew from a small livestock tank he found that morning, after boiling it over an open fire.

The mountain lion stood his ground, finally pushed to the limit. On either side of them was a 300 hundred foot drop off. A slight breeze blew across the ridge. There was a charged silence on top of the mountain, complete with a dizzying view in all directions. Caleb had never pushed an animal so far for so long. Breaking off a hunt was an integral part of hunting, something his grand father had taught him early on, telling him that sometimes you have to accept what nature has in store for you. This time, with this hunt, Caleb had persevered, continuing on, pressing, tracking even through the night, using all of the skills he had gained over the years to complete the task.

The cougar snarled at him, showing his large canines, but seemed weary, worn down by being hunted. "Tables turned?" Caleb asked and his voice made the cougar's ears twitch. Although it seemed he was in a defensive posture, he noticed that the cat was gathering his rear legs up under him. He raised his rifle, knowing full well he was only going to get off one round from his single shot H & R. He looked down the barrel through the sights, seeing that the mountain lion's right ear had a notch in it, torn by some previous territorial battle with another cougar.

Then as he was aiming he realized that if he took a shot now and hit his target the mountain lion was most probably going to tumble off the edge and plunge hundreds of feet below. He would never be able to retrieve his prize. It was right about then that his grand father's stern words echoed in his mind, reminding him that hunting was about the fulfillment of nature's order of things, not acquiring trophies. You as a hunter didn't set out to defile another creature. It was to complete a circle established by the seasons, the cycle of life.

Caleb then slowly backed away, keeping his rifle poised, ready to defend himself even though he had been responsible for the predicament he and the cougar were in. The cat watched him closely, effortlessly rising to a standing position, continuing to growl in a low guttural resonance. Confused, the mountain lion waited, watching him. Caleb continued retreating until he was enough distance away that the cat knew the situation had been defused. He knew he would never forget that moment, especially seeing the mountain lion finally running away, disappearing over an outcropping of jagged rock in one easy leap.

As the adrenaline ebbed in his body, Caleb dropped to his knees, suddenly exhausted, spent by the experience. He looked around him, noticing for the first time how beautiful the site was, the view stretching seemingly all the way to Phoenix. In the west the sun was just beginning to recede behind the peaks, giving off a kaleidoscope of pastel colors. He felt happy, relieved. He thought about what his grand father would think, whether he would have passed judgement on him. Just improving my tracking skills, Caleb thought he might say to him, grinning, hoping the old man would accept his explanation, his excuse.

This is different, Caleb now thought, as he prepared to go out into the wilderness. Apex predator against apex predator, that is the simple formula working here. Kill. Or be killed. He believed the mountain lion had overstepped the boundaries. Nature was inviolate, so Caleb believed. Only man disturbed the structure.

Be back in a week. That was all the note said that Caleb tacked up on the trailer door, scrawled in his uneven handwriting. His mother would find it the next day when she went out to ask him to help her with a chore on the farm. She clucked her tongue and thought about her son with the odd ways but knew that he was probably never going to be any different. She told her husband later on that their son had gone back into the woods again, who just shook his head and made an offhand comment about there being more spicy jerky coming their way. They both laughed.

Caleb's initial plan was undeveloped. He knew where the attacks had happened but couldn't decide which area to start a search in first. Following his gut instinct, he chose to go towards the Mogollon Rim. It was the place he knew the best, having spent so many years hiking and camping there. Bordered by I17 from his house, he thought that he might travel up the highway on foot to see if he could detect if the cougar had crossed the busy roadway or not. The expanse of land west of the highway would have supplied plenty of range for the cat, removing the necessity of crossing a highway. Think like a mountain lion, he told himself, as he headed up the side of the road, hugging the guard rail, looking for any spores showing where a large cat had crossed to the east side.

Slowly, meticulous, as noisy traffic sped close by, he searched, stopping only occasionally to reconfirm any tracks he found weren't from a large cougar. Wildlife crossed nightly, imperiled by speeding cars, as they dodged oncoming lights in either direction going north and south. Elk. Deer. Coyotes. Little critters of the night, as his grand father used to call them. Even badgers. No mountain lions. Not a trace.

Then, starting from the northern end, he worked his way back down, concentrating on high ridge lines, as he looked for any dens he might find. Finding one, he saw that it was abandoned from probably the birthing season the year before, with tiny paw marks etched into the clay ground hardened by the winter precipitation. Patience. Caleb had readapted to the rhythms of the forest, able to "gear down" as he liked to put it. He would discover the rogue cat's tracks in time. It was now about the will to accomplish the task, nothing more than that. His skill level was intact after being away for several years. How many hours, days, weeks, it took was immaterial.

A few nights before, in Sedona, Anton and Rachel had made their first date work, as they sat down to dinner at his mother's restaurant. After the death of her husband, Mrs. Martel had decided to continue on with her restaurant business, believing that it was the best thing for her to do in order to get past her grief. Now, she was hosting her son and his new friend, happy that he too was putting his life back in order.

Rachel, for her part, was uncertain why she had agreed to meet Anton for dinner, except that she thought she needed some diversion, even if it was short lived. The killings, and her integral part in it, had begun to wear her down. Back at ASU they were encouraging her to add her expertise to the case but she had no illusions about their support. She was now seen as a publicity magnet for the university, something the institution could point to and thump their academic chests about. Advanced education was all about notoriety in an age where tuition costs had become like a long term mortgage. Her department head had told her to complete her work, and make sure she is noticed. That he had actually said that made her squeamish, uneasy, and wanting to avoid the PR cavalcade that was stomping through the valley on a daily basis. Her college was going to have to be disappointed because she didn't plan on appearing nightly on any cable TV show like some of the Yavapai County elected officials were.

Anton was happy to not only be helping out his mother with her transition from married woman to widow, but he needed to be seeking out something other than what his chosen profession had been supplying him for the last few years. Returning to Sedona had been an emotional upheaval of sorts and now he just wished that he could come to terms with where his present circumstances had placed him. With the cougar catastrophe entering another month and the Verde Valley on red alert, Anton was on the ground floor to the unfolding madness and found that he surprisingly liked it. He was going to document the drama. He soon realized that he wasn't this excited about photography since he first discovered an aptitude for the art form. He now had rudimentary plans for a photo essay about his experience.

"What is this stuff?" Rachel asked in almost a whisper, as his mother hovered nearby, wanting to cater to her son and his new friend as best she could. "No, don't tell me. I don't want to know," she hissed at him, looking quickly over her shoulder to see if his mother could hear her.

"It's not meat," he informed her, smiling. "Wine?"

"Yeah," she replied, taking a fork full of food and hesitantly raising it to her mouth. "Here goes."

"Bon appetit," he told her, grinning. "My mom, you know, is kinda playing the mother hen role. She wants me to be happy."

"She's nice," Rachel said, looking her plate over again for the third time, wondering if she was trespassing on any culinary boundaries. "Wait'll you meet my mother," she announced, then blushed. "That didn't come out right."

"Mothers," he said, throwing up his hands, trying to ease her out of an embarrassing moment. "I'm just so happy that she decided to keep the place. I was afraid she might descend into depression and sit around her crappy condo all day. That I couldn't take."

"That's terrible about your dad," she offered, giving him a sympathetic look. "Must suck."

Later, over a dessert that Rachel was sure she was going to taste in her sleep it was so good, they turned to other topics. Rachel had already alerted him to her immediate plans, and he wasn't sure how he felt about them. She wasn't concerned about his opinion on the subject. Her decisions, particularly when connected to her career, were off limits. It had been one of the main sources of conflict in her previous relationship, causing it to crumble and eventually fade away.

"Are you sure?" he asked her again for the third time.

"My answer is the same as the previous two times," she shot back, irritated, feeling like her decision making was being challenged.

"Yeah, I know, but you are the one that told me all about mountain lions," he countered, eyeing her closely in the candle light on the table. "Let's see, you said, paraphrasing here: Leap up to 15 feet or more in the air, run at speeds up to forty miles an hour, jump or bound over twenty feet, teeth like--"

"Let me stop you there, Anton," she interrupted almost heatedly, drawing a few stares from some other diners. "First of all, I have spent countless hours in the wild, alone. No problem. Done it. Survived," she told him, wagging her finger. "Next, I don't need your permission to do what I want to do."

He sat back in his chair and said, "I know that, Rachel. I'm worried about you. We have a killer cat on the loose out there," he said, leaning forward to whisper at her. "Don't you think a little caution is called for. Maybe you should take a gun with you."

She looked at him for a moment, scoffed, then replied, "Yeah, a biologist packin', now that would make for a good story."

"How about I come along with you?" he suddenly suggested, nodding yes.

"You?" she spat out, squelching a laugh.

"Yeah, me," he exclaimed, masking how much he was offended by her remark.

"No offense, Anton, but mountain man you're not," she told him, trying not to laugh. "What, are you going to be my body guard? You can protect me with your Canon...or Nikon...whatever. Capture the whole thing on your digital card."

"First off, very funny," she stated, trying to sound resolute. "No, you are right, I am not such an experienced 'mountain man' but I have been out in the forest, you know. It's not like I wasn't born here and I didn't ever set foot in the wilderness. Give me a break."

"Okay, I take back my assessment of your wilderness skills," she said, trying to sound conciliatory. "Still, you, me, together. Might be too soon."

"Please, I didn't mean it like that," he almost shouted out. "I just meant that two people are safer than one--most times. That's all I meant."

"I know," she told him, smiling. "Okay, if you want to tag along I can't stop you. But, and listen to me, I don't want you to be holding me up. If you can't cut it then you are going to have to bail. Understood? I mean it."

He smiled at her and said: "You won't even know I'm there. Honest. Just me and my camera."

"You and those fucking cameras," she muttered. "First ground rule, okay? No head cam anything. I don't want you recording my every move. Got it?" He nodded that he agreed. "Two, separate tents. I assume you got one. This isn't going to be some sleep over in the woods kind of thing." She stared at him for a moment. "Third--"

"Do I have to write these down?" he wanted to know, feeling in his pockets for a pen and paper.

"Funny," she spat out. "And we are going to have to work on your silly sense of humor too."

The next morning, early, Anton immediately headed for a store in town that sold used camping gear, having lied about being outfitted for the outdoors. The last time he had camped out in Sedona was when he was a Senior in High School and even that had been a night of hilarity after numerous beers and some potent cannabis, where he passed out and woke up the next day covered in early morning dew and trail dirt, while his two friends slept in the tent they had erected after they had too many beers which was leaning precariously to one side. He hoped by buying used equipment it would appear to Rachel that he was an experienced outdoorsman.

Need to know basis, he told himself, choosing wisely not to tell Rachel about any of his previous Sedona outings. They had met up at a trail head in the VOC, not far from where his mother's condo was. Rachel had begged off meeting at the condo, not wanting to intrude on his mother's privacy, along with establishing any metrics in their blossoming relationship that she would have to later rescind. At the trail head he found her already prepared, standing by her car consulting her watch as he drove up. Pacing. She had been there for over fifteen minutes.

They exchanged small talk and he debated whether or not he should add a short buss to her cheek to his morning greeting. Thinking better of it, he told himself he wasn't sure of where their relationship was going or if it was even developing despite the good time they had had the night before at dinner. He heard an angry sounding bark and a medium sized dog appeared at his car door, eyeing him suspiciously. He stayed in his car, looking out the window, wondering if he was going to get bit or not. Anton pretended to be inspecting his supplies, trying to look like he knew what he was doing. Behind him he could feel her eyes trained on him. Waiting. He just knew he was going to be hearing some laughter at any moment.

"Got the sat. zeroed in," she announced, holding up the GPS in front of her. "Anytime now. That's Mattie, by the way. She's coming with us. Not scared of dogs are you?"

"Love them," he said unconvincingly, as he cautiously opened to door of his car. "Nice dog," he said in what he hoped sounded like a soothing tone. Mattie sniffed at his pant leg for a moment then retreated back to Rachel's car. "I guess I'm ready," he called out to her, even though he was still trying to figure out how he was going to get his sleeping bag attached to his backpack. As he turned around several pieces of equipment tumbled to the ground behind him. "Whoops," he said sheepishly.

"You look like you are going on safari or something," she sniped.

"Is that a good thing?" he asked, hoping he didn't look as clueless as he felt.

"You are kidding, right?" she shot back, walking over next to him and roughly pulling the pack off his back. She tossed several items back into the car, muttering under her breath. Looking down, she stated: "I see you at least still have your expensive hiking shoes."

"Should I have brought my flip-flops?" he joked.

"Got your cameras, I see," she said, jerking her head in the direction of his camera bag.

"I am a photographer, you know," he shot back almost angrily.

"Yeah, I know," she mumbled, tying off his sleeping bag then quickly going through what he had packed in the backpack just that morning. More items flew into the backseat of his car. "What's this? Is that a lantern? Going mining? Weather radio? Expecting a hurricane? I see you went to Resupply," she needled, smirking.

"Can we just agree to be civil to each other?" he asked, laughing, trying to hide his embarrassment at having been found out. "I place myself under your guidance oh wise one."

She made a face at him as her cell phone binged. She dug the phone out of her cargo pocket and checked the screen. "What the f is going on here?" she asked the heavens, waving her phone around. "I got a text from that computer dweeb you mentioned the other day. Who in the hell gave him my number?"

"Oh yeah, what's he say?" Anton asked, trying to sound like he wasn't all that interested.

"Something about his data being...what? Verisimilitude. His research is all about verisimilitude. Huh?" she stated, chuckling. "What a jackass."

"He texted you just to say that?" Anton asked, laughing.

"He's got some other BS about how he would like for me to contact him so we can mind meld," she responded, tucking her cell phone back in the cargo pocket.

"He didn't say that. You're joking," he spat out, giggling.

"Come on, let's get going," she ordered, adjusting the waist strap on her backpack for a moment.

Minutes later they were headed up the trail at a pace that Anton knew was going to kill him if they maintained it. Rachel was letting her aggravation take hold, as she hiked ahead, occasionally checking their progress with the GPS device, while Mattie zoomed up and down the trail, excited to be out in the woods. Just that morning she had finally come up with a rudimentary plan for tracking the rogue cougar. From the beginning she hadn't agreed with Hollis and Travis that the cat was drifting in from the Sycamore Wilderness area in pursuit of prey. After going over the Coconino National Forest maps for days she had begun to build a working theory, one that centered around a mountain lion that had become habituated to humans being in his territory and had established his den within easy reach of civilization.

Animal life could be wonderfully adaptive at times, choosing to stay around inhabited stretches of land in a form of symbiotic living. Many times the examples were bears, the ones who found eating garbage to their liking but other species participated in their evolving milieus. Foxes. Raccoons. Hawks nesting on the ledges of buildings. The list was a long one. Sometimes it was out of necessity and other times it was because they were stubborn and didn't want to relinquish territory.

Rachel thought this particular mountain lion was following the latter path. This cougar was an alpha to be certain and he was going to dictate where his surroundings began and ended. In the surrounding mountains, hills of four and up to six thousand feet, the mountain lion was afforded ample sites for dens to hole up in, places where he could easily descend to feed without detection. The ecosystem was stable even though it was so close to civilization, with a steady supply of fauna and flora. Rachel herself had done some field research in the area the year before. Unlike in some locales, as the development expanded, this particular focal point of the shrinking wilderness was holding its own, even though it was being stressed by climatic changes, from drought to rising temperatures, and the encroachment of vehicular traffic and build out from the city limits.

Rachel was confident that a rogue cat could exist within the boundaries she drew up on the map without being discovered. Mountain lions, among other things, were skilled at stealth, able to hunt undetected by hikers and mountain bikers, even hunters. In one of the nearby State parks cougars frequently left some clues within the perimeter, enough that the rangers had posted warning signs to visitors to be on the look out for their presence.

Before, in all of her time spent in the wild for research purposes, she couldn't remember ever feeling threatened by the wildlife roaming around so close by. Now, even though she wasn't going to inform Anton, she was trying to quell some of her nervousness and misgivings about going out into the cougar's environment, his turf, in order to challenge him. Even if she did have Mattie along for, if not anything else, an early warning system, Rachel knew that in any confrontation between her dog and the large cat it was obvious who the victor would be. Mattie, although fearless most of the time, carrying with her a stray dog's instinct for survival, was not going to be a match for a larger wild animal physiologically designed for killing.

Anton hiked behind her, keeping his eyes on the trail, trying not to trip over any exposed rock or concealed root. The backpack he had on weighed so much that he knew that if and when he tripped he would tumble over and probably never get back up. The SLR camera slung around his neck bounced against his chest until he shifted it so it nestled against his hip. He was happy he had only brought the one lens, paring down his equipment to the basics so he could lower the overall weight he was carrying. He cursed under his breath, noticing that he was getting a blister on his right foot already and they hadn't gone over a mile on the trail. A thought of just how humiliating this trek in the forest was going to be drifted into his mind and he tried to think of something else, as Mattie rushed up to him, snarled half-heartedly, then returned up the trail to take the lead again.

People and their fucking dogs, he said to himself, grimacing, shifting the heavy pack slightly on his back. He thought about telling Rachel they had leash laws in the county and she should put one on her dog, like now, but decided that wouldn't be the wisest thing to do. At least the weather's nice, a voice in his head told him. Big deal. I am going to die, expire, under a beautifully blue sky. Rachel will probably leave me where I collapse. I wonder if she would even call the rescue team in?

"Looks like your dog might need some water," he suggested, hoping that she might take a break, stop, enjoy the scenery. "Her tongue is hanging out."

"Your tongue is hanging out," she shot back without turning around, as she upped the pace. "Dogs sweat that way, FYI."

"What?" he asked petulantly, feeling the need to lodge some sort of response.

"Canines...tongues, that's the way their perspiration works," she explained, glancing back at him. "Doing okay back there?" she asked in a slightly mocking tone. "Let me know if you need to stop for a breather."

Anton noticed she said this in condescending way, with a smile. He watched her as she continued up the trail that was now more of an incline. The elevation gain had to be over a thousand feet he thought, looking over the edge of the narrow path, where it dropped off more than a hundred feet, right into a ravine choked with underbrush. A dry arroyo lay at the bottom. As they passed the wash Rachel had checked both sides for any spores, speaking into her phone, taking verbal notes. I guess she does know what's she doing. The fact that she was good looking made it all the more infuriating for him.

"Don't worry about me," he called up to her in between breaths, as he tried to keep up. "I'll be sure to take a shot of me falling off this cliff on the way down," he muttered, wiping some sweat off his forehead. He knew she couldn't hear him, so he added, "By the time this is over I'll be praying for the cougar to kill me."

Over an hour later they stopped. They had reached the top of a small mesa. Rachel was consulting the map she had brought along, speaking into her phone again. Mattie was sniffing the ground all around them, in a frenzy about all of the fresh smells she was experiencing. Anton caught his breath and dropped his backpack for a moment. His shoulders already ached and he had a cramp in his right calf that wouldn't go away.

"Mattie!" Rachel called out and the dog hurried over to where she was standing, taking a GPS reading. She bent over and took something out of the small pack the dog had strapped to her back. The dog might have become her pet but it was still a working dog when Rachel was out doing research. "Stay close," she ordered. The dog gave her a quizzical look for a moment, then dashed off to inspect around a large mound of stones placed there as a cairn by previous hikers.

"She minds you pretty well," Anton told her, not able to come up with anything else to say.

"Sometimes," she said, scanning the ground around her. "She's still feral at heart," she stated, watching her dog run around. "Don't want her to get too far away from us though," Rachel said cryptically.

Anton thought for a moment, then said, "Oh yeah, might not be a good idea." Suddenly he didn't even know what he was doing there, except that he wanted to be with her. He watched her for a moment as she made some notations in a small notebook. "I like you," he blurted out before he realized.

Rachel stopped writing and looked up at him, then said, "I like you too." She laughed. Feeling the need to say something else, she announced: "I'm working."

"I know," he told her, laughing. "I...I just wanted to say that."

"Okay," she said, raising her eyebrows.

"No, listen, Rachel, it's just that I haven't really, you know, made any attempts at knowing anybody lately--if you know what I mean," he tried to explain, feeling foolish.

"I'm a scientist--really," she declared, looking over at him. "I don't do a lot of emotions."

Anton didn't know how to take this admission at first, so he said, "None?"

She laughed and replied, "I told you this wasn't going to be a sleepover. I'm kinda busy trying to catch a rogue cat. Like I--"

"I got that," he interjected, shrugging. "I just wanted to let you know where I was coming from. That's all. It wasn't a declaration of love or anything. I've been in a bad place lately in my life and--"

"You really are from Sedona," she teased.

"What?"

"In a bad place...that sounds vaguely like some new age bullshit," she said, grinning. "Listen, why don't we catch this mountain lion first then we'll see what develops between us. Not that I'm promising anything."

"Oh, I know, but I just wanted to kiss you," he announced, smiling. "I wanted to last night...after we had dinner but, like, you said good-bye and got in your car before I could."

"You are definitely odd, you know that don't you," she told him. "Well, I don't have all day. Get over here and get it over with. Wait, no tongue."

He laughed and walked over and kissed her quickly, hoping Mattie wasn't going to go into attack mode when she saw her master being molested. "Now I can die a happy man."

She smacked his arm playfully and exclaimed, "I'm getting back to work now, okay? Or did you want to feel me up too?"

Anton now was introduced to the applied concept of bushwhacking. Going off trail had never even occurred to him. Going from point A to point B usually required the use of a well defined trail, one that had been scored out of the earth by countless hikers before him. In fact, he knew that it was frowned on by the forest service. It was environmentally destructive, disturbing the growth of the plant life. Now he was following Rachel as she headed out across open forest land, painstakingly cutting their way through some of the brush as they went.

It was also exhausting. Everywhere they went was a traverse along steep hillsides, where it was critical to keep your balance or you would fall down long expanses of sloping terrain, only stopped by tree trunks or boulders jutting out of the perilously slanted ground. Even Mattie was struggling in some spots, unsure, carefully picking her footing as they went.

Finally, after one particularly harrowing scramble over loose rock and volcanic dust, they reached a flat spot near the top of a small mountain, one of the higher peaks in the diminutive mountain range. From their vantage point they could see out towards the Mogollon Rim and in the other direction the Red Rock formations of Sedona. It was a beautiful vista, one that Anton took the time to take a few photos in the expiring light, as mid-morning was giving way to noon.

"I'm getting hungry," he announced.

"Let's get up to that next shelf and then we can stop and eat something," she suggested, pointing up the slope.

Anton looked upwards at what he thought looked like an impossible climb and said, "Are you sure? I mean it looks kinda steep."

"Come on, weanie," she taunted, heading further up the side of the mountain. "Think of all the great photos you'll get when we get up there," she called back down at him, snickering.

"I really like it when you challenge my manhood," he sang out, muttering an expletive under his breath.

"Oh, really, I didn't know you had one," she joked, as she scrambled over some loose rock. "Watch it there, it's a long way down."

Not wanting to look down, he kept his eyes trained up the sloping hillside, as his feet slipped continually on the crumbling surface, rutted by runoff by the last precipitation they had in the area a few weeks before. She's nuts, he thought, as he climbed hand over hand to the next level spot some thirty feet from the summit. He stopped for a minute to make sure the lens cap on his camera was securely in place, not wanting to scratch the lens on some of the jagged rocks. He now had a matching pain in his other calf, which was throbbing in stereo every time he took a step. A tiny voice was telling him that he was going to make a fool of himself out here, in the wild, and she wasn't about to be impressed by some neophyte toting a camera.

When he finally did reach the rock shelf Rachel had removed her pack and was taking some readings, while she coursed through her camera phone looking at some of the shots she had taken along the hike. She was muttering to herself, as she flicked her finger over the screen. Mattie, before so energetic, now was crouched down with her tongue hanging out, uninterested in his arrival as he struggled to clear the ledge. Anton slipped off his backpack and clutched at his water bottle as if he might die at any moment. He couldn't remember the last time he was so thirsty.

"Looks like a nice place to end it all," he announced half jokingly. "One step and you're done." He glanced down for a moment then looked away. He had never been afraid of heights but he seemed to be now. "We're going to need ropes to get down."

Rachel ignored his comment and spoke into her recorder using the app on her cell phone. Mattie's ears perked up for a moment then her apathy overtook her again and she placed her head on the ground. Must be used to this, Anton thought, wondering how many of these research jaunts the dog had been on with Rachel. Two military helicopters took off from the Sedona airport in the distance, heading west, until they split off from each other, with one going towards the Sycamore Wilderness area and the other one turning towards the Black Hills.

Rachel watched them for a moment then exclaimed, "National Guard...they must have called them in. Said they would."

"The cat is considered a terrorist," Anton joked. "Does it say anything in the Patriot Act about wildlife?"

She laughed and said, "Don't fuck with Homeland Security."

"What are we doing up here anyway?" he wanted to know, digging in his backpack for something to eat. He found an energy bar and fumbled with the wrapper for a minute. After finally getting it opened, he took a large bite and tasted a quick burst of chocolate flavor, spiked with cinnamon. He looked at the wrapper for a moment and smiled, noticing that it said: chocolate/chocolate.

"What, no candy bar today?" she needled, pulling out a bar she had made at home from a vegan recipe.

"Thought I might need the extra vitamins," he replied, making a face at her. "I figured you were going to try to kill me on this excursion."

Rachel snorted in response, then said, "Full of sugar."

"Kind of the point," he shot back, smacking his lips which were covered in gooey dark sludge from the bar.

"That junk will kill you before I do," she declared in a more serious tone. "That and all that meat you devour everyday."

"Oh, man, I forgot to bring along a Big Mac," he joked, pretending to look in his backpack.

"You can't be a virile male eating the nonsense you eat," he stated, thumping his chest.

Laughing, Rachel said, "I guess you could be classified as a male but the virile part is iffy."

"We'll see," he exclaimed.

"We will?" she countered.

Pretending to be crestfallen, he said, "My ego might be too fragile for this abuse."

Rachel's phone rang, with the alien sound drifting away over the edge, swallowed up by the open air. She glanced at the screen for a moment, mumbled something to herself, then answered the phone. Anton could hear her talking in hushed tones, turning her back to him. After a moment it was obvious her ex-boy friend was calling. They traded conversational barbs for a moment, then she hung up. He could see her face was now flushed with anger.

"Fucking hell," she spat out, literally stomping her foot. "Is he kidding me?"

"What's up?"

"Nothing," she replied evasively. A moment later she said, "My former boy friend, the jackass, called to tell me that I shouldn't be out here."

"Here?" Anton asked.

"Here," she almost shouted, waving her arms around. "He thinks it is too dangerous for me to be out here. The big idiot! He calls me to tell me that. Like he has a right to even be calling me. We're over--hello! I shouldn't have even answered the damn thing."

"I think she shouldn't get so stressed about it," he told her, trying to sound sympathetic.

She shot him a murderous look then said, "I'm going up to the summit, so stay here." She took out a pair of binoculars and the GPS device and started up the narrow ridge line. Over her shoulder she called out: "Relax. I'll be right back down."

Anton watched her climb up to the summit, agilely scrambling over ledges as she went. Got to admire her for that, he thought, as he took up his camera and took some shots. He wondered if he was going to be able to sell some of his photos; an insider's view of the hunt. The title danced around in his mind for a moment. At the very least he was going to get a photo essay out of this adventure.

Caleb had holed up in a hollowed out indentation in a rockface the night before. The Verde Valley was pocked with natural rock structures easily utilized for habitation, something the early inhabitants from a thousand years ago had taken advantage of. It wasn't uncommon to find Native American ancestral domiciles constructed hundreds of feet up from the valley floor, embedded in impressive expanses of geological marvels in varying shades of crimson. Added to nature's rock were low undulating walls constructed from mud and stone, providing the dividers the extinguished civilizations had relied on as demarcations of privacy or protection to ward off wildlife roaming the region.

He had been in many of them over the years, utilizing their warmth and security. In High School many of his classmates had spoken of evil spirits emanating from the ruins, with tall tales of agonizing death at the hands of renegade native Americans angered by the intrusion on their land. Caleb liked the stories but drew a different conclusion from sharing the abodes of lost cultures. Many a night he had sat by the fire and thought how he was sharing space with hunters that had gone before him, deriving sustenance from the same environment. He wasn't a trespasser. There was a shared bond.

Two days in the forest had him discouraged. His route along the highway had led to nothing. For an entire day he had tracked a solitary deer, hoping, wishing, that he might cross paths with some cougar spores. Nothing. Up and down several arroyos was unsuccessful as well. All of his skills were failing him.

The rogue mountain lion seemed to have vanished. It was almost as if the cat knew how to conceal his tracks. For four hours he lay by a water tank, concealed by some gnarled mesquite trees, having rousted a sleeping rattlesnake from its shaded spot, which slithered away reluctantly. Caleb concealed himself some twenty feet from the muddy water hole, after surveying the numerous spores embedded in the mud by the water source.

Snared by the mesquite's thorns, sliced around the forearms, he settled in to wait. Like most, he hated the tree that was so prevalent across the Southwest, with its shared history of use by the Native Americans and pioneering settlers, who used it for medicinal uses and black dye, along with arrows and needles from the sharp thorns, while the latter used it to make rail road ties, fence posts, and even wagon wheels. It was a pest, one of those hardy vegetation types that are difficult to eradicate but become part of western lore.

Caleb excelled at taking up this hunter's posture, concealed, close to invisible. Hours of contemplative waiting could be endured as he blended in with his surroundings. It was a skill he had to develop and had after so many years alone in the wilderness. Solitary. Able to undergo a metamorphosis as he became attuned to the natural settings. "Beyond Zen," he had told one of his soldier friends once, after he had tried to explain what it was like to completely merge with what was around you. "No, I don't use a ghillie suit," he had exclaimed, exasperated by people who didn't understand that he didn't need a camouflaged cover, couldn't comprehend the transference it takes to disappear into the background, the backdrop that nature provided.

There had been numerous times in the past while out hunting, when other hunters would pass by, so near he could almost touch them, and they wouldn't detect his presence.

Most of them were posers, weekenders out to prove they belonged. They didn't. There was no respect for their game and they treated the woods like a playground, just an extension of their techno world, there for them to utilize all the latest in recreational gadgets. Killing a living, breathing animal was, for the most part, only secondary. With high velocity weapons and satellites orbiting overhead, most of these pseudo hunters treated the art of hunting like a carnival ride.

Caleb didn't like them in the wilderness. Once, while returning from a 25 mile trek through the Sycamore Canyon, he had come upon an elk lying on the ground. The dying animal had crawled to a spot just off the canyon floor and was in the throes of death, snuffling, eyes wide from fear, face half buried in the dry river silt. He could see a small wound in the elk's rear flank, which had disabled his right leg. Pausing, Caleb looked around to see if there were any hunters in the vicinity. He listened. In the distance he could see a man ascending an old little used trail on an ATV. He could see the elk had been shot from a long distance and been left to die simply because the hunter was inconvenienced by having to cover the ground to the bottom of the canyon. Furious, Caleb wanted to pursue the hunter that had done the damage but decided against it, as he shot the elk to end the animal's misery.

He hated it when anger was able to penetrate his time in the forest. Being in the wilderness was time for introspection, segments of your life reserved for observing, sensing, gathering strength, like being reinvigorated after having to deal with society. Not that he admitted this to anyone, not even his late grand father. No one would understand. It was a sign of being anti-social, even disturbed. Perhaps it was. Caleb wasn't sure. He just knew that his time in the Army, off fighting wars in other desolate pockets of wilderness, hadn't changed anything. His mindset had just hardened, bolstered by the natural inclination of the world's nations to enact horror with more and more technological accuracy. In the forest he was permitted to pare down the parameters, distill them, make his actions function within a framework he found comfortable, more comprehensible.

He found the spores on the edge of a wash. Most of the wash was dry except for spots here and there filled with leftover runoff. Caleb bent down and examined the print, feeling the edges that were still crusted by the sun penetrating through the trees. A few yards away he found a mud patch and there was another spore, this one fresh. He held his hand over the large print, noticing how large they were. Several yards further he found some scat the cat had dropped in the middle of a little used trail. He knew right away it was the rogue cougar.

Caleb stepped back from the fresh spore and looked around. The wash uncoiled for a short distance then disappeared around a sharp bend as it cut through the hills. To the west, the wash opened up, broadened, with only a few medium sized boulders placed in the middle. He had been down this very wash before several times and knew it emptied into a ravine in one direction. Eastward, he remembered it petered out before getting to 89A. Many animals used it as a transit point, going east to west and back.

"Where would you go from here?" he asked aloud, peering up the steep hillsides that plunged down to the wash. "Plenty of water holes down here," he muttered, surveying the dried up soil all around him. He listened for a moment. Smelled the air, noticing a breeze was blowing out of the southwest. "Skirmishing with death," he sang out, laughing, remembering what a compatriot of his used to say when they were heading out for another patrol, one more time to tempt fate.

"Here, are you sure?" Anton whined, looking around at the location Rachel had chosen to set up their camp for the night.

"I think there's a Super 8 right down the trail," she ridiculed, shaking her head. "Burger King too."

"McDonald's," he corrected. "I prefer their cuisine."

"Excuse me," she shot back, smirking. "Death by grease."

They had continued their banter throughout the long day and were now setting up camp on a rise that afforded them a view of a large meadow below. Rachel had chosen the spot because she wanted to be able to see a long distance across a pathway she believed a significant number of animals used in order to descend to the creek that flowed south from there. It was textbook "glassing", something hunters used often, but she believed it might turn up some evidence of any cougars prowling in the area.

After a day of having to babysit Anton, she regretted ever permitting him to come along. Her work was tedious, time consuming, and basically boring, requiring long hours of compiling data. Like with many people of her generation, so she had told him in hour two of their backpacking trip, she believed he suffered from attention deficit disorder of some kind. Unplugged from technology made him hyper, inattentive, and borderline annoying. Unfortunately, for her, she had taken them far off the established trail and didn't feel comfortable sending him home on his own, fearing he might get lost because his sense of direction did seem unreliable.

Rachel was going to have to endure his presence for the duration of the stay even though she did, at times, like his company. Unlike many of her other friends, who were mostly strident academics with little or no sense of humor, she found Anton wonderfully playful and intent on enjoying himself at all cost. This was, in its way, refreshing for her. He could be simultaneously sarcastic and earnest, like he was flipping a switch, going from comedian to serious commentator in an instant. Romantically she hadn't given their bond much thought, letting it develop slowly, if at all. Although he professed his intent up front, she knew he was looking for a diversion, something to tide him over while he endured his sojourn in Sedona with his mother.

"Your dog is looking at me again," he declared, retreating a few steps back. "Like she wants me for dinner. Tell me your dog is a veg-head like you."

Rachel laughed and scolded Mattie, who looked up at her puzzled. "Don't scare the poor man," she said, wagging her finger. "He is wimpy and doesn't like being in the outdoors. Don't make it worse."

"That's funny, impugn my masculinity in front of your dog," Anton countered, chuckling. "I can see the two of you like to gang up on men. I get it. Solidarity. Bet all your other boy friends loved the two of you tag teaming them."

"Other?"

"What? Oh, you know what I mean," he said sheepishly.

They set up their individual tents, with Rachel glancing over to watch him struggle with the assembly of a tent he had never before taken out of its stuff sack. First one pole would pop out of its sleeve and he would reinsert it, then another one would do the same. Frustrated after a half an hour of miscues, where the tent seemed to take on a life of its own, he tossed the unassembled length of nylon on the ground. He ignored her laughter behind him, saying it looked like a nice night to sleep under the stars.

"With the coyotes and cougars, maybe a bear or two," she announced, grinning.

"I'm being punished for lying," he finally said, pantomiming like he was crying.

"That wouldn't be lying about being a world renowned woodsman, would it?" she asked, laughing mockingly.

"Okay, so I'm not such a, you know, outdoorsman," he stated defiantly. "I just wanted you to like me," he told her, pretending to blubber. "Is that so wrong? I ask you."

"I bet you were in all your High School plays," she commented, walking over to the tent lying in a heap on the ground. "Here, idiot, let me show you how to do it."

"I just love being called an idiot. It is so good for my self-esteem," he exclaimed, addressing Mattie, who raised her ears for a moment, then gave a half-hearted growl.

Rachel had the tent erected in a few minutes, telling him that he might have gotten a smaller tent. Her one man backpack tent seemed tiny in comparison to his two man one. He told her he got the cheapest one they had that was small enough when packed for him to carry. She tossed the fly on top and challenged him to fasten it into place. He assured her he could finish the job, moving around the tent and connecting the ends to the stakes.

After their camp was set up, Rachel spent a few hours scanning the meadow, hoping to see movement. Except for a deer and a skunk, there was little activity. As the afternoon sun dropped over the Black Hills, Rachel gave up her watch and prepared some freeze dried dinner, a vegetarian version of stroganoff. They sat around the fire enjoying the tranquil quiet of their perch overlooking the Red Rocks. It was times like this when Rachel got rejuvenated.

"I'm going to be up early, before daybreak," she informed him, looking at him in the firelight. "Just sleep in a little. Let me do some work."

He thought for a moment, wondering if he should make an advance. The night at dinner had him confident he was making progress. They shared a lot of laughs and seemed to be connecting. Then again, she was somewhat of a conundrum to him, giving off mixed signals most of the time, alternately receptive and then emotionally austere. At first he had attributed this quirk to first date nervousness but he was now beginning to believe that this peculiarity of her personality was how she was.

"You seem to have a plan going on here," he offered, leaning over a little so he could see her better in the flickering light of the fire. "How did you come up with it?"

She eyed him for a moment, trying to gauge the level of his interest, whether or not it was genuine or not. "Okay, well, I have done field work before on cats, for one thing. I worked with a conservation team down in southern Arizona, near the Mexican border. We were doing some research on jaguars, the panthera genus, that might be using a movement corridor between Mexico and the US. Conventional wisdom for a long time thought jaguars had been extirpated from within the United States border."

"Wait, did you say jaguars?" he asked, stunned to learn that there might be jaguars in Arizona.

"Oh yeah, there have been several sightings, with pictures," she told him, smiling. "It's true. You can see it on the internet. One died not too long ago. Caught up in a set trap. It was a large male, over a hundred pounds. Camera traps had snapped his photo several times."

"Fucking hell," he exclaimed. "I had heard stories before but I thought it was all bullshit. I mean, you know, jaguars. Sounds crazy. Tell me about your research down there."

"You can read the summary notes online...PDF," she stated, smiling, appreciative of his show of interest in her work. "Well I got to see the cat up close one day. Big. Sinewy, powerful muscles. We put a collar on him so we could track his movements. After darting him of course."

"What was that like? I mean being so close to a jaguar. Must have been a...an experience for sure," he said excitedly. "I would like to get some shots of that."

"Yeah, it was," she said, smiling. "You know you work with so much habitat fragmentation in my research, where the animals are being pushed out of what amounts to their homes and then you get to see something like a wild jag come along. I don't care how jaded you are it turns it up a notch. The oak-pine woodland area down there is apparently drawing some of the males up from Mexico. If some females follow there might be a good chance for some new lines of jaguar to develop on our side of the border."

A subtle cold had slipped into their campsite, barely warded off by the dying fire. The suffused pink and vibrant orange of the sunset had faded away, dissipating behind the mountains. Mattie was curled up next to her, dozing. She was slowly adapting to Anton's presence, although she was still skittish around him. Rachel had told him she was like that with every stranger and not to take it personally. He had little to no experience with people's pets, having never had one when he was growing up. His parents thought house pets were a monumental waste of time and resources.

They had talked for over an hour, swapping biographical information easily, like two long lost friends. Even though she was from the east and he was a native son of the Southwest they seemed to be able to communicate easily, two twenty-somethings operating in an elastic timezone. Young people of his generation were, for the most part, unmoored, able to paddle along with any current. Cultural touchstones anchored them when they did become adrift; but subconsciously they both knew they were going to have to negotiate a pathway towards their respective tents, something a simple good-night wasn't going to ease.

Finally, after contemplating and discerning what his options were, Anton suggested: "I guess we better hit it. I know it's early and all but you have to get up early tomorrow." He stiffly stood up and stretched, waking up Mattie, who growled then thought better of it.

"Yeah, let me set my watch now," Rachel announced, working the buttons on her digital watch. "I usually wake up but you never know. Mountain lions are crepuscular by nature, so I have to be ready. Come on, Mattie, go do your business so we can go to bed."

Feeling awkward, Anton said, "Good night then."

"No good-night kiss," she asked coyly, wanting to take her comment back immediately.

"Oh, okay, if I have to," he sang out sardonically.

They kissed clumsily, and hugged each other, then turned to go to their separate tents. The fire crackled, as it drew down to some final embers. Overhead millions of stars loomed, blanketing the sky in every direction. No light pollution here, Anton thought, wrestling with the crusty zipper to his tent, cursing softly under his breath for buying used equipment.

"Problem?" she called out.

"Nothing that I can't handle," he answered, laughing. "By the way, if you get claustrophobic in that nylon coffin you call a tent, you can drop by mine. I got plenty of room. It's like the University of Phoenix stadium in here. I'm thinking of putting in a hot tub."

"Nice try," she told him, urging Mattie to go inside her tent.

"Leave the dog though," he continued, chuckling.

"Good-night, Anton Martel, the world's most famous photographer," she declared, with her voice carrying out into the night.

"Get in the last shot...sleep well, Princess of the Forest," he replied. A coyote yelped in the distance and he called out: Is there room in your place?"

Mattie growled and she told her to be quiet, then said, "Be one with the universe. I know you people from Sedona know how to do that."

An hour later he heard some rustling by his tent. He hadn't been able to sleep at all, as he lay there hearing one noise after the other, an entire symphony of strange dissonance in his ears. He was beginning to long for the lumpy futon back at his mother's condo when he heard the zipper on his tent's front flap slide open. A bolt of adrenaline traced an arc up his spine. Just as he was thinking what wild animal takes the time to open a zipper, he heard Rachel giggle and felt her hands feeling along his legs.

"Is this part of your field research?" he asked the dark and felt a smack on his arm.

"Shut up, for once," she whispered, as they both tried to pull the zipper down on his sleeping bag.

Chapter 10 Sherry Pell: 4th Victim

She lived alone now. Her husband of four years had departed, leaving in a whirlwind of recriminations and distrust. The marriage hadn't been functioning for over a year at that point. They had made several half-hearted attempts to restore the marriage, each one ending in failure. Even though relatives on both sides had tried to lend their advice and guidance, there didn't seem to be anything that could save the bond they had once shared.

Her husband had moved out and into a friend's house over in Rimrock. He was working up in Flagstaff now and was trying to get used to driving up I17 every morning. They hadn't spoken in over a month.

For her, she was happy there were no children involved. They had tried to have a child early on in their marriage but were unsuccessful. She often wondered whether or not that aspect of their relationship had contributed to the pending divorce. Perhaps. Then she didn't like to think about their past. It was time to put it all behind her, so said all of her friends; although her mother continued to insist she try to make another attempt at saving her marriage.

"Sherry, we are going to be at the restaurant on Main Street, in Old Town," the message on her voice mail said. She wasn't listening closely to the message, as she finished up some of the clerical work she had to complete by the end of the day or she would fall further behind and her boss would be pestering her non-stop until it was done. Sherry quickly texted her friend to tell her that she would meet her at the restaurant but might be a little late. Then she returned to the forms on her desk, dreading the task ahead of her.

It was just before five pm when she finally finished the paperwork, stacking it neatly on her desk. Almost everything in her office was computerized but she still found that she had to deal with forms sooner or later in the process. Everyone in her office had gone home and the small office was deathly quiet, except for the hiss of traffic passing by outside, a steady stream of cars going through Cottonwood, in route in and out of town. Sherry then got a text from her friend telling her that she was running late and that she would meet her in the restaurant.

Sherry was beginning to get nervous because although her friend had assured her that she wasn't trying to play matchmaker, it was clearly obvious that she was. For over two weeks she had been trying to convince her to go to dinner with some friends of hers. This translated to a setup, with some probably unsuspecting eligible man having been invited along for the express purpose of meeting her. "Gotta get back out there," her friend had said continuously, chastising her for not being proactive after her marriage passed the point of being restored. Sherry wasn't sure she was ready to take that step. Having been married for over four years she had long ago stopped thinking about cultivating a new relationship. Men, strange men, had been off her radar for what seemed like a very long time.

Her friend persisted, telling her that she wasn't even thirty yet and needed to get on with her life. She eventually gave in. The meeting had been arranged, with the minimal information being provided. At this stage, Sherry didn't much care. She had decided to approach it like an opportunity to expand her horizons a little bit. Have a nice dinner. Conversation. Laughs. It didn't have to lead to anything of consequence. Lowering expectations made the situation more palatable for her.

Sherry arrived at the restaurant to find she was too early. She texted her friend to tell her she was there, receiving a return text saying that she would be there in twenty minutes. Sorry. Have a drink. Mark, her boy friend, was picking up the fourth member of the foursome at his house in Clarkdale. Not wanting to arrive alone in the restaurant, Sherry decided to walk down the street, checking the odd assortment of store fronts as she went. She had always liked Old Town, with its quaint turn of the century storefronts and unusual businesses, from candy emporiums to stores that sold curios and gems.

She strolled down the street until she reached the end on the east side, pausing to decide if she wanted to walk on the Jail Trail that ran along the river bed river for over a mile towards the Riverfront Park. It had been warm that day, a harbinger of the coming summer. The barren trees were now mostly covered in fresh leaves and there was a pleasant, light breeze out of the west.

Sherry wondered why she had never walked down this trail before, it being so close to the street. Two people walking their dog passed by, giving her a little wave and a smile, then reminded her of the sign posted by the trail head. She stopped for a moment to pet the dog, a collie, while the owners told her the trail was slightly muddy from the rain that had fallen a few days ago, and, of course, to beware of the mountain lion. They said this cavalierly, as if it was preposterous that a predator from the wild would chose to attack on a city byway. They laughed at the thought.

She glanced at her watch for a moment, deciding that she had time to walk further down the trail before she had to return to the restaurant, ignoring the large sign with the photo of a cougar on it at the entrance to the river bed, complete with bright red letters warning of the danger that might be lurking. I'm not going very far, she told herself, feeling that she would be safe as long as she didn't walk very far.

The trail began to wind around, passing in among some large trees, with dense underbrush all around the trunks. Sherry stopped when she reached an expanse of river rock, smooth, worn down by the run off that coursed down through the valley from the north. The trail seemed undefined at this point and she wasn't sure if she should go to the right or to the left. She could hear voices to the right, young voices, teenagers exchanging gibes and laughing. Not wanting to encounter them she turned to the left and walked deeper into the wooded area. The tree canopy made it darker, with the late afternoon sunlight barely able to penetrate the full branches above.

Unsure if she should continue on, Sherry stopped for a moment to look around. The voices of the teenagers was now muted, almost undetectable. The breeze rustled the leaves at the top of the trees, giving off an almost wind chime effect. I never even knew they had this trail back here, she thought, smiling as she realized she had lived in Cottonwood for so long and didn't know about some of its attractions.

A sound caught her attention, distinct, but muffled. Then she heard it again. Startled, she turned to see a squirrel scurry up a nearby tree and laughed out loud. It was then, as she was distracted, her life ended.

Pain was etched into the back of her neck, and she could feel hot breath on the right side of her face. She staggered for a moment, then fell, locked in a death grip, as claws bore into her shoulders. Prostrate on the ground, Sherry tried to stand up but with the weight on her back she fell back on the trail. She then attempted to cry out but a canine sliced into her throat, as blood percolated outwards. Her life was rapidly ebbing away.

Perhaps in the last vestiges of her consciousness she might have heard it. Probably not. Screams echoed down the trail. Two people ran for help. A brave boy ran to Sherry's defense, trying to dislodge the cougar from her dying body. The mountain lion halted his attack momentarily to inflict several nasty slashes to the boy's arms with its claws, causing him to retreat. The other boy began to throw river stones at the cat but was mostly ineffectual, as the cougar gripped his prey in his mouth and dragged her deeper into the underbrush, finally disappearing into the gloom of the gathering shadows.

Sirens were heard soon there after, as the police, alerted by the other teenagers in the group, converged on the spot of the latest attack. One of the boys helped his friend to the entrance of the trail, who was now bleeding profusely from the gouges on his forearms. An ambulance sped down Main Street. Chaos reverberated. Police officers, guns drawn, ran down the trail, flashlights training elliptical hallos of light before them. Nighttime was rapidly overtaking the area.

The teenage boy was treated by the paramedics, while his friends told the story, the only eye witnesses to the rogue mountain lion's growing attacks. More police were called in, reinforcements. A command center was hastily established at the trail head, while overhead a helicopter arrived to aid in the search. Sherry's friends walked down from the restaurant to see what the commotion was, not realizing they would never see her again.

Predictably, two TV trucks appeared, arguing with the police commander about their rights to be there, on the scene of the latest victim, there to provide information for the public. Angry words were exchanged.

Out in the woods, down the trail, Sherry's cell phone was ringing, as her friend was trying to find out why she wasn't at the restaurant waiting for them to arrive. Confusion. Shouted orders. Thumping of the helicopter rotors beating the night air. Radios cross communicated. Kleg lights from the cable news channels flooded the street, as reporters gave their preliminary reports, often without any information that had been confirmed.

First one cop, then another, heard the ringing, ringing. It was coming from off the trail, to the west. Then they found an arm, severed neatly at the shoulder, with a new watch on the wrist. The hand was missing two fingers. A torso, bitten, sliced numerous times, chewed, with entrails disgorged onto the ground. And finally, two gleaming eyes in the beam of the flashlight, staring, full of fear. Sherry's head lay upright next to the trunk of a fallen tree, her hair only mussed slightly, with numerous puncture marks around the forehead.

One of the policeman stopped abruptly, letting his mind catch up with what he was seeing, as comprehension filtered in. He then turned swiftly around and vomited next to one of his fellow policeman, splattering his shoes. All the policeman gripped their guns tighter, training their flashlights on the body parts littering the area. In a faltering voice, one cop spoke into his radio, telling the commander they had found the victim. Dead. Dismembered.

The spotlight from the hovering helicopter captured the scene from above. The rotor wash made the tree branches sway, crackling, bending under the force of the downdraft. More personnel hustled down the trail. The cell phone had finally stopped ringing. A cop yelled out something about blocking off the entrance to the trail. Nerves were taunt. Shouts echoed up and down the trail.

"We're going live with this!" one of the producers from a nightly cable show yelled out, frantic, trying to assemble her team so they could get the unfolding story on the air in a few minutes. The camera crew scrambled around their truck, letting their experience with developing stories take over. The reporter consulted with the producer, going over what details they had been able to glean up to that point. "I'm going to have to embellish," he declared, checking his reflection in a hand held mirror. "Get me closer to the trail. I want that sign with the mountain lion in the background of the shot. Good optics. Come on, people, we got less than a minute for the uplink."

"A kid got attacked," another producer was telling his network field reporter, speaking in a low voice so the other TV competitors couldn't hear him. "They are going to go with the police angle so let's switch it up and go with the kid trying to save the latest victim. Hey, where are we on where they took the kid? There's only one fucking hospital in this podunk town, right? Let's move on it!" The driver swung the van around and they sped up Main Street towards the Verde Valley Medical Center, which was only a few miles away.

It was the beginning of Gary Burton's fifteen minutes of fame. He would become the would be hero, the kid who tried to intervene and save Sherry Pell's life. Lacerations on both of his forearms would take over forty stitches to close. There would be the possibility of infection from the two bite marks on his upper right shoulder, where the cougar had latched onto him briefly, leaving several deep punctures near his collar bone. He would have to endure painful rabies treatment. Gary would be told more than once by the medical staff that he was lucky, fortunate to still be alive. His life had been measured in inches one way or the other, sharp canines having just missed the jugular vein in his neck.

"Like, it was brutal," he would tell the street reporter from CBS, grinning into the camera, warming to his new found status. "I had my hands on the thing's head and it was snarling and biting at me. It was some crazy shit." The network would blanch at the expletive, but happy it was a live report, meaning they were the first to land the interview.

"Tell us how it first happened, what you were doing," the reporter suggested, gently steering the conversation to where she wanted it to end up, with Gary giving details about the initial stages of the attack, the next killing in Verde Valley.

Gary, laying in his hospital bed, with bandages covering his arms and around his neck, elaborated, taking to the having a camera trained on him with ease. Several nurses stood in the background, while the ER doctor on duty ineffectually tried to reassert his control over the situation. The others involved in the attack had been marginalized, shuffled to the waiting room, where a local journalist was attempting to interview them for the weekly newspaper.

"Me and crew were out there on the trail, like, just doing what we do," Gary told the reporter, grinning at her, trying hard to maintain a tone of seriousness that he thought the immediate situation demanded. "Then we heard some screams coming over that way. I told my bro it sounded bad so we heading on over that way."

"What did you first see?" she asked, holding the microphone close to his face.

"Like nothing at first," Gary responded, raising his eyebrows. "It was getting pretty dark out there. The lady was screaming real loud, so we followed her screams and--"

"What did you think was happening?" the reporter interrupted, moving a little to her right so the camera could slide in for a better angle.

"Happening?" Gary repeated, making a face. "Like nothing good. I mean the lady was screaming. Could've been lots of things, I guess."

"Did you think about the mountain lion that had been killing people in the valley? Did that enter your mind at all?" she asked, leaning over to get in the shot.

"Fuck, yeah," he told her, grinning again. "Like it's all anybody's talking about around here."

"You weren't afraid?"

"Nah, I heard the lady screaming so I knew she needed help. So me and my bro went ahead and tried to help out," Gary explained. "Then the next thing I know, like, I'm being jumped on by some hairy animal. I'm down on my ass in no time, fighting like hell. My friend Brad is throwing shit at the cougar and yelling."

"Did you think you were going to survive at that point?" she asked him, nodding, silently urging him to reply.

"Hell no," he said succinctly. "Honestly, like, I thought this was it. I'm dead. The cougar's gonna bite my head off. Game over. True story. It is over, done. I got that cougar's nasty ass breath in my face and he's clawing me all over my arms. Like somebody's not gonna think they are finished. Dead."

"How does it feel to be the only one who has survived an attack by this rogue mountain lion so far?" she said, looking into the camera briefly before turning her attention back to Gary in his hospital bed.

"I feel like WTF," he answered, shaking his head, suppressing another grin. "I mean, like, you never know when it's your time to go. Do you? I'm out on a trail with my friends and--kaboom, you are wrestling with a killer cougar. Just glad to be alive...and I feel real sorry for that lady and her family. Sorry that I couldn't have saved her."

Sixteen year old Gary would appear on several different networks and cable shows in the following days, each time polishing his delivery and the contents of the story until they were free of profanity and heavy on how contrite he was for not having saved Sherry Pell. The police would eventually plead with him to shut down his interviews because they were jacking up the panic level in the valley. Every time he agreed to an appearance he would add another gruesome detail to his failed heroic attempt, leaving less and less to the imagination for any residents living in the Verde Valley. The killer cat's reputation was escalating.

There was going to be another funeral. More news reports would follow. The local network affiliates in Phoenix had posted semi-permanent personnel in Cottonwood, the central city, seat of Yavapai County affairs in the Verde Valley. Nightly updates were being posted. The story of the rogue cougar was becoming the story. Four people had died tragic deaths, one of them a young child. A killer was on the loose, making it the lead story almost every night. It had reached the critical stage, so said the Sheriff on the phone to Rachel, with an edge to his voice bordering on anxiety.

He reached her just as Anton and Rachel were setting up camp for their second night of camping for the field work she was conducting. "You got to get here now," the Sheriff barked into the phone, while behind him a cacophony of noise cascaded all around him. Shouts. Competing radios. Hubbub of bystanders there to see the latest installment of the slow motion mayhem.

"What is going on there?" she wanted to know, confused about why the Sheriff was calling her with such an urgent request.

"We got another victim...right in town practically," the Sheriff informed her, passing on a few orders, raising his voice to be heard over the helicopter engines nearby. "Old Town. Woman. He got her right on the Jail Trail. How long will it take you to get here?"

"I'm working in the field," she told him, holding up her hand for Anton to be quiet. "Might take me awhile to get there."

"Hurry," he stated and the line went dead.

"What's up?" Anton asked, bewildered by the call as much as her.

"The cougar struck again, right in Old Town," she replied. "We gotta get down there. The Sheriff wants me there-now."

"What? Why?" he countered. "You can't do anything at this point."

"I don't know, Anton," she exclaimed, exasperated by her impotence. "I just have to get down there. They want me to an analysis, I guess. Like that's going to make a difference at this point. God, what is going on?"

"Isn't it kinda of dark to be out hiking around?" he wanted to know, looking around at the darkness that was enveloping them. "Is that safe, I mean?"

"You know that silly looking thing that attaches to your head, you know, with the flashlight on it," she replied, already thinking about which route they were going to have to take to get back to the car, "that's what it's for. Hiking in the dark."

They broke camp quickly and headed back down the trail. She led the way, as Anton tried to keep up with her. Mattie stayed just in front of them, every so often whining her displeasure about having to proceed in the blackness, where every step was hazardous, another possible stubbed toe or worse. Their progress was slow, hindered by having to stay on the trail which took a circuitous route as it contoured around the sloping mountain side, complete with numerous slanting switchbacks.

By the time they arrived in Old Town, the crime scene had been sectioned off and most of the onlookers had gone home. It would be on the news in the morning or making its own wake on the internet as it flowed out to the public. The Sheriff was sitting in his squad car talking on his cell phone, yelling, telling whoever it was that they weren't in charge. It was the city of Cottonwood's jurisdiction. A few deputies were standing outside his car rolling their eyes and exchanging smiles. An unsettling quiet had settled over the trail head, with large crime scene lights illuminating the small parking lot.

"'Bout time," the Sheriff called out when he saw Rachel arrive. "Forensics is almost done."

"Nice to see you too," she countered, giving Anton a knowing look, who stood off to the side, not wanting to get involved.

"I don't like the proportions of this fucked up crap," he hissed, motioning for his two deputies to follow him. "Well, Doctor, let's get this over with."

"I got my kit," she said, following in step behind the Sheriff and his two deputies, who were unholstering their handguns as they started down the trail. "Think that's necessary?" she asked, pointing at their guns.

The Sheriff glanced behind him and stated: "Yeah, damn, Winters, somebody got killed out here. We ain't taken any chances it might happen again. Attacked a boy too."

"There were two victims?" she exclaimed, surprised.

"Oh yeah, a teenager got bitten up pretty bad but he survived. He's in the hospital recovering," the Sheriff explained, shining his large flashlight on the trail in front of them. "It's not that far." Then he noticed Anton tagging along and asked, "He with you?"

She looked back at Anton for a moment, then said, "Yeah. We were out doing field research when you called."

"We are going to need all the help we can get," the Sheriff announced with an air of resignation. "The Guard was here earlier. Couldn't spot the fucking mountain lion, even from the air. I'm beginning to think this cat is supernatural." He forced a laugh then turned left down a side trail. "This way."

An oasis of light lit up the darkness, with large trees looming over them, their branches rustling in the night breeze, giving off an eerie atmosphere. Human forms walked in and out of the lighted area, busily going about their assigned tasks. To the right the flash of a camera spotlighted the forest for an instant then died away, leaving the night to reinvade the trail. People were huddled here and there, speaking in hushed tones. The usual police banter had been replaced by grim determination.

"Tell me about the survivor," Rachel said, moving faster to catch up with the Sheriff. "I will want to interview him, of course."

"Of course," the Sheriff muttered, as if it was all futile. "Here. It's been all marked off already. I know these aren't ideal conditions for you but I didn't want to wait. The clock is ticking. Let me know your findings." He turned immediately and walked back to his squad car, telling his staff to take their time and be thorough.

Rachel watched him disappear into the darkness, with the beam of his flashlight dancing down the trail in front of him. One of the deputies had been posted to remain by them, gun drawn. Anton smiled weakly at the policeman, as she backed up and tried to get an overview of the incident area, some clue as to where and how it developed. She now knew that with this cougar the abnormal was going to have to be taken into consideration.

It took her over an hour to get a bead on the line of attack. Working in the dark made it all the more difficult. She knew the first forty-eight hours after an attack was the window to locate the predator. After that, the probability dropped exponentially. Yet, she knew she couldn't hurry her examination of the site. Details had to be fully examined. At first glance, the attack appeared to be a classic case of predatory behavior. Except for the choice of prey it was a text book example, something she had seen dozens of times before. Like many wild animals the cat ambushed in the gloaming time of day, using its superior nocturnal vision to watch and wait. Sherry Pell would have had no warning.

By the time the sun was coming up over the Mogollon Rim, Rachel had a pretty good idea about how the attack happened. She had discovered a scratch pile near where the victim had been killed. The cougar had scouted the area extensively. She found evidence of his presence in an arc around the actual point of attack. She asked Anton to take a few photos as they searched through the woods, giving him something to do to keep him occupied. The deputy assigned to them followed along, keeping his eyes trained on the surrounding forest.

"Cougars can climb," she informed him, winking at Anton. "You might want to keep an eye up in the trees too." Startled, he trained his gun upwards, as he scanned the thicket of tree branches right above them. "You are probably never going to see him before its too late anyway."

Feeling sorry for the deputy who was clearly rattled by the duty he had been assigned to, Anton said, "She's playing with you. Really. The cougar is probably long gone by now."

Caleb had seen the Blackhawk helicopter flying sweeps in the distance, giving him a subtle flashback to his time in the Army. He knew immediately. From his vantage point in a knoll east of Cottonwood, he realized he would need to get down to the riverbed to pick up any fresh tracks left by the cougar. A recent kill site offered him an opportunity to crowd the mountain lion, let him know he was being pursued. Sensing this wasn't an ordinary wild animal but one that had almost a human like ego, he wanted to push him, challenge his control of the territory.

Others would mock this approach. Wildlife weren't capable of emotions. They lived by instinct and natural attributes that were deeply woven into the fabric of their species. Man used superior intellect and technology to rule the forest. The food chain was totemistically linked by genus and defined by basic survival. Each creature was a food source for another, locking them into avoiding a "dance of death", as his grandfather used to tell him.

When he finally made his way down to Old Town, bypassing the roadblock by crossing to the other side of the Verde River, Caleb surveyed the opposite shore for any entry points. He knew cougars didn't like to swim but were capable of doing it if they were coerced by circumstance. As he walked along the river he could see the commotion on the other side, with policeman appearing here and there along the trail. It was then that he caught his first glimpse of Rachel while she was taking samples on the ground, compiling more data to analyze.

Intrigued, he watched her for a few minutes, concealed by the trees that reached down nearly to the river. The helicopter was gone for now, returning to its base to refuel and take on another flight crew. His time was limited. Caleb knew the National Guard would return to pick up the search. He would have to move quickly so as to go undetected.

Then he heard dogs barking and saw the woman and two men seemingly arguing. One of the men was holding the leashes to several dogs, who were yapping, straining against his hold. Another man was taking photographs of them from a few feet away, moving, changing his shooting position constantly. A few moments later, after some heated words were exchanged, one of the men, the one holding the dogs, headed north up the river, struggling to keep the dogs under control.

He could only hear snatches of what they were saying as their words rode the wind out of the west. He watched the progress of the dogs as they followed the scent. A few hundred yards up the river the dogs halted at the water's edge and started to circle around, manic, with their bleating barks echoing in the wind blowing through the trees. Caleb had guessed right. The mountain lion had crossed the river at a narrow point and now the dogs were stymied by the disappearing scent, leaving them in a state of maddening confusion.

Caleb had approached from the east so he knew what direction the cougar was heading. He had been wrong before. The rogue mountain lion was holing up in the Black Hills, a 7500 hundred foot redoubt of corrugated peaks, heavily forested in spots, with plenty of precipitous drop offs. Although heavily trafficked by outdoor enthusiasts, from hikers to campers, to even hang gliders, it was an area that could easily conceal a predator.

Fortunately, it was also a region Caleb was totally comfortable with, having spent many hours hunting there when he was first learning how to track game. "No home field advantage there," he said aloud, as he quickly moved along the river, hoping to spot some tracks that would positively establish his theory. Not fifty yards further he came upon a fresh print in the muddy bank. Very little water had seeped into the spore so he new it was recent. Even though he was tired from being in the forest for a few days running, he pressed on.

He glanced across the river and saw that the two men were arguing with each other and the woman was openly laughing at them. One of the men kept pointing to the other side of the river. Caleb heard the other one say there was no way he was jumping into the river, even as some of the dogs had entered the river and were standing there chest deep in the water. Finally one of the men threw up his hands and stalked back down the trail, disappearing into the trees, while his friend gathered up the dogs and lumbered slowly along behind him. "See you later, Hollis and Travis!" the woman called out in a sing song voice, waving good-bye. "Nice to see you again."

Caleb laughed when he realized it was the hired hunters from Camp Verde. Hapless. Helpless. This cougar is intelligent, cunning, and merciless. All of these thoughts were running through his head as he followed the tracks, now more visible, almost as if the cougar knew he had fooled everyone. Not far away the tracks crossed the river again. It was extremely rare for a cougar to swim but now he had done it twice in a short time, almost as if he knew dogs would be onto his scent and have to go to another crossing point to stay on his trail. Once they did, he would have retreated back to the other side again.

Now Caleb was in a dilemma. He knew if he went further north to find a more suitable crossing point he was going to run into the two hunters, who had undoubtedly returned to their truck and headed to a better destination point for following the scent. He had no choice but to wade in and cross the river at that point, hoping that it wasn't too deep in that spot. The water was cold, almost taking his breath away as he slowly made his way across. Once in the middle, when the water had reached up to his chest and he was holding the rifle over his head, he looked back down the river and noticed the woman was watching him with a pair of binoculars, motioning to the man with the camera. The photographer was training his long lens in his direction, snapping photos. He knew his cover was blown but he hoped they wouldn't be able to tell what he was up to.

Rachel knew, almost immediately. A man, mid-river, with a rifle over his head, could only mean one thing. Some freelance hunter was now involved, one more character to add to the growing cast of characters in the charade. She had lost count now, telling Anton you needed a Playbill to keep up. Just that morning they had been accosted by some young guy wanting to interview them for his podcast from The Verde Valley Show. He was broadcasting daily from his house, keeping locals and others on the internet worldwide what was happening with the Killer Kat, as he labeled it on his website in bold letters. Videos on You Tube of anything having to do with cougars were getting heavy play, spiking more and more as they drama was extended more with each new kill.

"Who is that crazy guy?" she asked rhetorically, watching Caleb finally reach the other side dripping wet.

"I don't know but I bet he's pretty cold right about now," Anton declared, snickering. "Add one more crazy to the list."

"Did you get a good shot of him?" she wanted to know. "I might want to show it to the Sheriff. We don't need any more cowboys out there doing their thing. Jesus, this is getting too fucking weird."

"Getting?" Anton joked, laughing, as he brought up the last image on the digital camera's LCD. He enlarged the photograph for a moment and stared at what he had captured on the screen. Looking over at Rachel, he exclaimed: "The guy looks like a cross between an old prospector and a Navy Seal. I had forgotten how many mutants lived in this valley."

"Sooner or later somebody's going to get shot out here," she muttered, finishing up the cast for a large spore she found leading away from the attack site.

Chapter 11 Into The Blackhills

As Hollis and Travis drove to a spot on the other side of the river, Caleb pursued the cougar, following his infrequent spores as they eventually ascended into the foothills of the Black Hills. It wasn't long before the outskirts of Cottonwood gave way to the Clarkdale town limits, where the houses where sparsely built across the lower reaches of the mini-mountain range that loomed over the two towns. He knew the ecosystem well and hoped he would catch up with the cougar before he reached the forested areas of the mountains, where he would be at a disadvantage because of the ground cover.

Several times he lost the trail, only to find it again after crisscrossing back and forth, continually climbing higher. When he reached FR 418, a contour road that went from Mingus Mountain all the way to the small town of Jerome, he stopped to check his progress. Off in the distance, more than a thousand feet below, he could see Cottonwood and on towards the northeast Sedona and the Red Rocks. From that altitude he could also see Mt. Humphrey's snow capped peak shimmering in the rising Springtime heat.

Then he thought about Jerome and all the tourists that visited the former ghost town and how they would be easy prey for the cougar. The town was nestled against the steep mountainside at five thousand feet with easy access from the west reaches of the Black Hills. The town was always teeming with visitors any day of the week. It had become obvious the cougar was becoming bolder, expanding his hunting territory.

Fortunately the road had plenty of volcanic dust for him to track the prints easily. The mountain lion had turned north when he reached the road and was making his way towards Jerome. Animals, like humans, often times took the easiest route when it came time to go somewhere. The cougar didn't seem to be in any hurry. Caleb kept up a punishing pace, even though he was exhausted, hungry, and thirsty. He told himself he would buy something to eat and drink when he got to Jerome.

A mile or two outside of Jerome the spores veered off the road and climbed up a loose embankment, disappearing into some vegetation. For over a half an hour Caleb had been tracking along the road, ever mindful of the higher ground to his left, where there were plenty of spots for an ambush. Mountain lions liked to use an elevated position to attack from, giving them an advantage from the initial stages of the attack. He had edged closer away from the inside section of the narrow road, hugging the outside, close to the numerous dropoffs that plunged over a hundred feet down.

Caleb knew he was out of his element to some degree. This wasn't a passive game he was hunting but another predator, one with superior skills. He kept his rifle ready, safety off, hoping that the cougar was content after his kill from the night before, satiated. Then again, this was obviously not any ordinary mountain lion. Most mountain lions hunted once every 6 to 10 days, providing they killed a large prey. This one seemed to hunt for pleasure as well as sustenance, like a house cat with a mouse.

He walked along the road for a short distance, scanning the surrounding area, looking for any other spores that might show another deviation from the forest road. Caleb listened. Standing still. The rifle felt like a load of bricks in his hand. His shoulders ached from carrying his small backpack. There was a persistent gnawing in his stomach and his tongue felt swollen in his mouth. Both of his knees throbbed from climbing up and over obstacles for the last two and half days. He could hear the faint reports of guns being fired down below at the makeshift, unofficial firing range at the foot of FR 493. There would be several people down there popping off at improvised targets. It seemed you couldn't go anywhere in the valley without hearing gunfire of one sort or another, from hand guns to shot guns. Nothing. He couldn't detect any movement up on the mountain side.

Look up, he reminded himself, although he knew that much of the forestation was ponderosa pine and not suitable for a mountain lion to perch in for an ambush from above. It was a varied vegetation zone though, with ferns, agaves, yuccis, alligator junipers, and oak. The cougar could be waiting anywhere for him and he was certain that, by now, the mountain lion sensed he was being tracked. There would be no element of surprise.

Finally, Caleb decided to arc around the point where he had seen the prints leaving the road, heading towards the north to sweep around, almost like he was flanking the cougar. He pushed his way upwards, literally climbing on all fours often just to keep himself from falling back down the mountain side. After bushwhacking through the dense vegetation, adding more thorn scrapes to his arms and face, he stopped and waited, concealed in the shade of a large juniper. He drank the last of his foul tasting water, something to keep his dry throat from choking him.

And waited. Two hours passed. He passively watched as a yearling javelina passed by on the road below, unaware of his presence. Caleb continually scanned his surroundings, looking for any movement. A butterfly landed on his arm for a moment, then lazily flew away. He could hear a woodpecker a dozen yards away pecking away on an oak tree. It was times like these that he truly enjoyed the forest.

He then heard the far off rumble of an ATV sputtering along, getting closer and closer. The sound was approaching from the north. A short time later he heard voices, a man and a woman. They rounded the corner and Caleb could see a couple driving along FR 418, slowly making their way towards the camp ground at the top of Mingus Mountain. Yavapai County had decided not to close the camp grounds for fear of losing tourist business to the region. The couple were laughing, drinking beers as they headed to the peak at a slow pace. No hurry. Vacation time. All of the cougar reports were overblown. Nothing to worry about. Caleb watched them drive by, wondering what they would think if they knew the mountain lion was in such close proximity to them. People really are stupid, he thought, smiling.

"I know when it's not working," he said aloud, stiffly standing up and stretching. He took out his wallet and checked to see how much money he had on him. Then he headed towards Jerome, hoping to find some portable food he could take back out with him, knowing that he wasn't giving up. It had only just begun.

Rachel had come to the same conclusion. She had been wrong. The cougar's attack vector was originating from another compass point. The valley floor and its chaparral ecosystem wouldn't have provided him with enough cover for any sustained attacks. Instinctually, a wild animal will seek out an environment they are comfortable in. It was a prominent variable, besides the presence of prey.

"We need to get up in those mountains," she told Anton, pointing to the west.

He liked the sound of 'We' but didn't like the other implications, and replied, "Do we?"

Rachel eyed him for a moment, then continued, "Yeah, that habitat is...is more suitable for him." She began packing up her material. "Let's get out of here before some enterprising news jackass finds us."

"Maybe we should just follow that guy," he suggested sarcastically, pointing up the river.

"Really," she spat out, "do you have to always be so witty?"

"It is heartwarming to know you think I'm witty," he told her, smiling, taking another close up of her with his second camera hanging around his neck.

"If you are scared, then tell me now," she stated, stopping to hear his answer, eyeing him. "Come on, let's hear it."

"Scared?" he stammered, looking away and pretending to be adjusting his camera.

"I guess you wish you were doing fashion shoots again, huh?" Rachel needled, grinning. "Anorexic models, expense accounts, parties, the good life, right?"

"FYI, I never was into that," he countered, trying to sound offended.

"Yeah, you did," she exclaimed, laughing. "Drugs. Orgies. Jet setting around Europe."

"Sure," he said, rolling his eyes. "Like I ever did any of that. It was hard work, my job."

"Just kidding, Anton," she finally said, letting him off the hook. "Seriously, you don't have to come with me up the mountain. I can handle it on my own, you know. I do it all the time."

"Not when there's the cougar from hell stalking everybody," he exclaimed. "You got to admit. This is different than anything else you've encountered before. Tell the truth."

"Okay, maybe this is a little different," she agreed.

"So, I'm coming with you," he declared, even though he thought it was foolhardy, dangerous, and, in the end, unproductive.

After Rachel finished her duties and had made several calls to her contacts in Yavapai County, she headed to a store in Sedona to resupply for what she knew was going to be more than an overnighter up in the mountains. Fortunately, the year before she had spent several weeks in the Black Hills helping a colleague study the local bear population around Mingus and Woodchute mountains. Although it could be challenging terrain, with some dense underbrush and craggy massifs, the habitat wasn't impossible to field survey. A friend, a biologist from NAU, had done most of the preliminary work in the years preceding their attempt, leaving them with a strong blueprint and reliable data to establish an analysis.

At that time, conventional wisdom had posited that the mountain lion population was negligible, with only sporadic evidence of a cougar presence. The habitat spanned a large area and was healthy, including javelinas, coyotes, the usual ungulates deer and elk, even some ringtailed cat, along with the occasional bobcat. It wasn't thriving but it wasn't endangered either. A delicate balance had been achieved in the ecosystem even though the mountains were heavily trafficked by outdoor enthusiasts in all four seasons.

Rachel knew it was going to be more difficult moving from the relative open area of the valley floor to the mountains, where wooden ravines and dense vegetation would make detection all the more unlikely. Also, reliable tracking would drop off, reduced by hard volcanic laced soil and flora that was often impenetrable. Wild animals adapted easily to the change in terrain. Even though she had been in the field many times doing research her skills weren't fine tuned enough to pin point where an apex predator might be hiding.

Something had to be done. Somehow the cat knew to move away from the chaparral environment of the valley floor, instinctually sensing that the shrubland wasn't going to provide enough cover. Helicopter sweeps were going to be of little use when the subject was concealed under a heavy blanket of trees. While Hollis and Travis wrestled with their pack of dogs, the cougar had slipped away, leaving little traces of his whereabouts behind.

"Look, Anton, I need to take a minute to analyze some things before we head up. Where can we go so I can look over a few things?" she asked, as they finished up buying some more supplies.

"Library," he suggested, shrugging. "It's right down the road."

They stopped off at a natural food store to get some lunch, giving Anton an opportunity to buy a deli sandwich with some organic meat, even though she criticized his selection, making the counter worker laugh. He also loaded up on some bakery treats, telling Rachel that he had to carbo load for the next step in their mission. She pinched his stomach and teased him about how soon his waist line was going to be keeping pace with his age.

The bantering helped them temporarily forget what they had seen that morning, another post mortem walk through, with tell tale signs of a frightening and painful demise. I'm not a forensics person, she kept telling herself, as she uncovered more evidence of a hostile, violent ending of a person's life. Anton took his photos reluctantly, not wanting to record what had happened to some innocent victim taken by time and place, another odd statistic to add to the growing list. Seeing it had further shaken the both of them.

While Rachel compiled some more information to work from, spreading maps out on a table in the back of the Sedona library, Anton tried to read some magazines, choosing a tabloid type so he could immerse himself in some frivolous stimuli, perhaps transport his mind somewhere else. His mother called, twice, wanting to know what he was doing and where he was. The novelty of having his mother call him struck him as comical, then annoying. It had been so long since he was within reach of any parental tether he didn't know how to react. Each time she called he hurried outside to speak with her in hushed tones by the front door, while library patrons walked by, eyeing him coldly for interrupting the quiet.

To the steady clacking of keyboard keys, as people around the library surfed the internet, Rachel retraced her steps on the map, finally zeroing in on the Verde River bed area. She ran her fingers down Main Street and out onto the Jail Trail. Puzzled, she couldn't understand the kill site pattern of the rogue cougar. Cornville was further to the east, separated from the other half of the valley. The second kill site was on the way to Camp Verde, to the south. Kristen Snow had died on the outskirts of Sedona. Now the latest victim was almost in the middle of the valley.

Southern California had a rash of attacks, at least one resulting in death, where the cougar was centralizing his predatory strikes in a single area. It had been decided, after some research of the cougar on human predation, the mountain lion had become habituated to human contact and due to unforeseen circumstances substituted prey selection because of the availability. The cougar was destroyed and samples taken but no concrete conclusions drawn.

Rachel actually knew one of the biologists who had worked on that particular case study and decided she might call him to see if she could brain storm about any similarities that might exist between the two cases; although she was more and more convinced that with this specific situation all norms had to be ruled out. This rogue cougar was different. The differences were mounting up. Range. Kill zone. Attack methods. Even size. All the data was going to be skewed, warped by unusual traits and biological anomalies. Judging by the size of the spores alone she knew that it was the largest cat she had ever read about, over 200 pounds.

It was puzzling to her that the big cat was stepping out of its feeding habit, electing to prey on humans when the ecosystem was healthy. The deer population had not declined and there were migrating elk present, along with pockets in the valley where javelinas thrived. The mountain lion's usual food sources had not been diminished in any way. She chuckled to herself for a moment, as she stared at the unfolded map on the desk, remembering what Anton had said about being in a bad movie, one of the ones that has a wild animal on the loose bent on revenge. Only there was no cub that had been senselessly slaughtered by some drunken hunter or the cougar's mate wasn't run over by a car late at night, again by a careless drunk. Cougars didn't mate for life and were solitary. This cougar never would have known its offspring. That's preposterous anyway, she thought, tapping her fingers on the table.

Through the window she could see Anton walking back and forth in the parking lot talking on his phone, gesturing as he talked. She watched him for a moment and wondered what she was doing with him. Her previous failed relationship had faltered over work requirements and now she knew she must be reaching out for someone to fill the vacuum. It was true she was used to being outdoors alone for long stretches of time but it was also just as true that she liked companionship. Anton filled that roll. He was like her, she believed, accustomed to moving on, changing the scenery, as he had put it that first night at dinner.

He would be gone soon, returning back to Europe, back to his photography career, even though he had made statements about his new found commitment to photographing Sedona because he thought he had a different perspective now than before when he was younger. She didn't believe him and thought it was silly bravado or something to say to convince himself. Rachel knew by his very words that he had broken with the valley years before and wasn't going to be able to re-ignite any enthusiasm and desire he once had. Although Anton didn't like to admit it, she realized that it was his mother that was anchoring him at this juncture in his life; in fact, she figured he was probably talking to her on his cell phone at that moment, telling her he was okay and that he would be back home soon.

Somehow Rachel wasn't touched by this little fact. Like him, she didn't have much capacity for emotional travails that might pop up in her life, something that invariably placed roadblocks in her way. Her former boy friend had always accused her of being too cerebral, steeped in data and analysis, "close ended," as he like to say even though he too was in the science field. She had been urged by him to leave it at the door sometimes but she wasn't always able to shed her career like he was. Her life was seen through that prism, one that dictated she not stray far from her chosen profession that had become more of a life style than anything else.

People like her burned out frequently, so she was told by others more than once. You have to have an off button. A release valve. Or what? It begins to crumble out from under you, she was told by her faculty advisor years ago when she had begun her quest to excel as a biologist. Didn't matter. The wilderness called. I answered, she was fond of saying, laughing uneasily, almost as if she were giving away a secret.

"What are you up to?" she asked in a hushed tone of voice, drawing a stare from an older woman sitting at the next table reading a novel, a best seller she had just checked out of the library after having it on hold for a long time. Rachel smiled weakly at the woman then turned her attention back to the map, now covered in hastily scribbled notes and wavy lines, all in red marker.

"Solved the riddle?" Anton hissed into her ear, again drawing a look from the woman reading the novel. He made a face at her and debated on whether or not to tell her how the book ended since his mother had finished the very same book a week ago.

She shook her head no then whispered: "We should get going, I guess."

"You don't sound all that fired up about it," he said, sitting down next to her and looking over the map for a moment.

Rachel quickly folded up the map and gathered up her things. She liked to keep moving, if possible. No inertia, she told herself, pulling on his sleeve to follow her. For the last few minutes she had been debating about telling him to stay at home and not go with her up on the mountain. It wasn't that she thought he might slow her progress once they reached the forest but that she thought she wanted to establish a boundary, a barrier. They were slipping quickly into a different stage and she thought it was too soon, that there seemed to be an acceleration going on because of their shared experience with the ongoing slow motion catastrophe in the valley. It might not be healthy for either of them.

Anton sensed her pulling back. He followed along, wondering if he should offer to not accompany her up into the Black Hills. His outdoor adventure had been a questionable success, with him feeling like he was a Boy Scout who had failed to be awarded any merit badges. His lack of expertise was endearing like a bungling character in a comedy, one that you don't necessarily have to interact with on a daily basis. He reasoned that if he continued to be there, in the wilderness, their bonding might take a turn for the worse. He had charmed her. He had been the loveable fool. Even her dog was beginning to at least ignore his presence and not growl at him.

The dividends are dwindling, he thought, following her out to the car, where Mattie was yapping and smearing his wet nose all over the windows. Rachel stopped for a moment to field a phone call on her cell phone, while Anton tried to get the dog to quiet down. He could hear her telling someone from Yavapai County that she didn't want to do something asked of her. An argument started, with Rachel cursing several times right into the phone, getting more stressed as the conversation continued.

"Yeah, I can do that," she finally barked back into the phone, giving the phone the finger and hanging up.

"Take a deep breath, Rachel," Anton told her, trying to sound simultaneously sympathetic and sarcastic.

"Fucking...what the fuck?" she spat out, stuffing her phone back in her pocket. "Shut up! Mattie" she ordered, sending the dog jumping into the backseat. "They want me to interview the kid...the one that survived the attack. There are probably going to be cameras there, TV cameras. Are you kidding me? I don't want to get anywhere near the place. I wanted to talk to the kid before but not now. What good would it do?"

"Okay, maybe we can pull it off without anybody knowing you are there," Anton suggested unconvincingly. "Look, we drive up there and slip in the back. Hey, not many people know what you look like--right? Only that idiot from whatever channel it was, the one that caught up with you down in Prescott."

She cursed under her breath then declared: "When did I become property of Yavapai County? That's what I would like to know." Rachel paced back and forth for a moment, then said, "Like I'm going to get any vital info out of talking to some idiot teenager. I mean, are they kidding? I've got more important things to do."

"I know," he told her, trying to soothe her, let her know he was there to help out anyway he could. "I could run interference for you while you are doing your work with the little dumbshit. Might work."

Rachel looked at him for a moment, then smiled, reaching over to squeeze his arm, saying, "What a guy." She motioned for him to get in the car, giving Mattie a quick pat on the head as she got behind the wheel. "I'll interview the kid, take a few notes, then head up the mountain."

"You, singular?" he asked, looking over at her, waiting for her response.

"About that, maybe we should swing over and pick up your car," she offered, hoping he wasn't going to be difficult about her sudden decision. "I think I should go it alone--with Mattie. I work better alone, not that I haven't enjoyed the time with you, Anton."

"Sounds like a kiss off to me," he stated, trying to sound humorous, unconcerned. "You know I do have a function in all of this," he explained, patting his camera bag. "Photographer of record, or so I'm supposed to be."

"I get that but I think I might be able to do some more advanced field work when I'm on my own. It's how I've always done it in the past. Worked for me," she explained, trying to sound congenial, placing the onus on the spectrum of her work habits. "I was trained this way."

"What, to be an asshole?" he spat out before he realized. "Forget I said that," he added immediately, regretting his comment. "I hear what you are saying and I can see where you might want to...to follow your training and all but--"

Rachel held up her hand and declared: "I've made up my mind, sorry, but that is the way it has to be."

They drove towards the Village Of Oak Creek in silence, with Mattie glaring at Anton, sensing her master had turned on him. Bell Rock came into view and Anton thought about telling her he wasn't going to go over to the Verde Valley Medical Center with her. He didn't see the point. She had made it clear that she wanted to continue on alone. While he pouted in the passenger seat Rachel had already leaped ahead to how she was going to approach the Black Hills, where she was going to begin.

When they got to the parking lot where his car was parked, Anton got out and walked around to the driver's side. He leaned into the window and said in an affected tone of voice, "I still love you."

Rachel laughed and muttered, "I know."

Anton smacked her arm lightly, telling her, "I guess this means you are bailing on the interview at the hospital with the little shit."

She nodded yes and said, "I'm going to blow it off. They can sue me if they want. Talking to some teenager isn't going to help right now. The trail is already going cold. Besides, those two morons, Hollis and Travis, might luck out and get onto the cat's scent, then everything changes. I don't want to be up on the mountain running after a pack of dogs again."

"Oh, I don't know," Anton sang out, grinning, "I miss those good times."

"You would," she exclaimed, clutching his hand for a moment before putting the car in gear and driving off.

"Be careful," Anton called out to her, waving good-bye, fearing that it might be the last time he ever saw her. With Mattie barking in the backseat, she disappeared down the road. He looked into the distance at the Red Rocks and dreaded having to return to his mother's gloomy condo.

Caleb had made his way into Jerome after tracking the cougar for several hours, losing the trail countless times. He knew hunting took, most of all, perseverance. Patience. Resolve. His silent peptalks kept him going, up and down the hillsides, through several washes, finally depositing him near the old mining town. He stood on the outskirts of the small town and watched the cars coming and going, as more and more visitors coursed through the narrow streets in route to Prescott or up from the valley floor to enjoy the quaint atmosphere of a community perched literally on the side of a mountain, near a large escarpment that cleaved the mountain range practically in two.

At five thousand feet, Jerome offered a spectacular view of the Verde Valley and on towards the Four Peaks up north near Flagstaff. Galleries, curio shops, bars, restaurants, all vied for the tourist dollar. Turn of the last century architecture gave the town an atmosphere of times almost forgotten; not that the civic organizations of Jerome wanted to ever let the visitors forget, offering tours of restored homes, promoting the paranormal activity of ghosts throughout the stores and hotels, and establishing a living history that was easily absorbed.

Predictably, Caleb hated Jerome, finding it distasteful for its diminishing of the area's mining past. Although the town did have a museum devoted to the extraction industry, it was the artificial veneer applied to the existing character that bothered him the most. His exposure to the tourist trade was minimal, so he also had a reflexive disregard for having visitors continually plaguing his home area. The local economy was constructed around the arrival of outsiders, bringing an infusion of cash, a steady stream of revenue, but he knew that it tended to degrade the environment in the long run.

The cougar's tracks disappeared there, vanishing on the broken pavement of a side street cracked by the shifting earth and constantly changing temperatures. Puzzled. Caleb stood there a moment, wondering where the mountain lion could have gone from there. By now, he knew he wasn't dealing with an ordinary wild animal but one that had flexed his instincts and passed beyond any natural tendencies. Sometimes it wasn't unusual for an animal in the wild to become acquainted, even familiar with his changing environment, where the advance of development infiltrated the habitat, altering the order of things.

Now Caleb would have to scour the narrow streets in search of any spores leading off away from the town. Being there, walking with his rifle, dirty, unkept, he felt exposed, uncomfortable. He ignored the stares of people, tourists and residents, as he walked up and down the rolling streets, with houses perched precariously on the side of the mountain. Somebody had to have seen the cougar pass by here, he thought, as he thought about asking an elderly man sitting on his porch eyeing him. They exchanged glances. A car drove slowly by, with the driver craning his neck to see what Caleb was doing in his neighborhood.

Then, fortunately, he spotted a tract of soft dirt in between two houses, one dilapidated, with the roof in the initial stages of collapse, and the other newly restored to its original appearance from the early 1900's. Caleb kneeled down and ran his hands over the ground, feeling the tapered indentations of the cat's toe pads. The audaciousness of the cougar's actions impressed him. His comfort level was increasing. Human activity didn't phase the mountain lion. Humans, for the cougar, had become just another target for him to prey on.

The old man on the porch stood up to see what Caleb was doing, squinting against the bright sun. He's probably going to call the cops, Caleb thought, stealing a quick look behind him, before he followed the fresh trail up to another impossibly steep and narrow road, half paved, with several cars parked at odd angles in front of their homes. He could hear music coming from an open window, some generic hip hop music he had heard some of his platoon buddies play in between patrols to unwind from the omniscient chaos. "Fight chaos with chaos," one of them used to say, grinning, as he turned the volume up so loud you could hear the pulsating thumping oozing out of his ear pods from ten feet away.

Caleb moved on quickly, fearing that at any minute he was going to be stopped by the Jerome Police, questioned, accused of trespassing or worse. He was a lone man, with a rifle, stalking the neighborhood. Even the liberal gun laws in Arizona weren't going to keep him from probably being taken in for a brief interrogation. He would have to tell them he was out hunting, in route up the mountain. The police would be skeptical. Suspicious. He had no record. He lived in the area. There was ample money in his wallet, with a locally issued driver's license. Despite his relative immunity from any legal charges, he didn't want to endure the hassles.
As he was passing by the last house on the small street, he caught a glimpse of a police car turning down from the next road, driving slowly as the cop scanned the neighborhood. The old man had called, as he thought. By the time the cop reached the end of the street Caleb was gone, leaving the city limits by a faint trail that climbed up and away from the town. He stopped just long enough to watch the cop pass on by, finally turning onto the next block.

As he watched the police car make its way down to the lower street level, Caleb had a startling thought, almost like a premonition: the next victim was going to be in Jerome. It was almost as if the cougar was sizing up, casing the point of attack, like a vigilant criminal, careful and cunning. Someone was going to meet their end in a crowded, municipal setting. There's no way, he thought, looking out over the quaint town below, a beehive of activity, with happy visitors walking the undulating streets of a town brought back from extinction by the resilient tourist industry. That very cop might be the one to find the dead body, mangled, dismembered, with blood spilled and running down the hilly streets.

Caleb shook the thought away and continued on, now gaining altitude rapidly, passing by six thousand feet and onto seven. The mountain lion apparently had stopped here, under an alligator juniper tree. He kicked at the hard dirt where he could just make out a slight impression where the cat had laid down for a little while. Caleb imaged him licking his paws, wiping his face of blood from the latest victim, his rough tongue removing the crimson residue from his fur. Urine markers were placed here and there, as the cougar set out his territory.

It was late afternoon when he lost the trail along some rough and rocky volcanic break in the forest. The ground was hard, with sharp black protrusions of rock jutting out of the ground, a mine field waiting to trip him up if he wasn't careful where he stepped. Slowing down from exhaustion and carefulness, Caleb finally stopped to take stock of his situation. Thirty yards down the mountain he had spotted a claw scratch on the side of a pine tree, another marker from the mountain lion. Now, though, he had lost the trail again.

Losing the trail when tracking was common but this seemed deliberate, almost as if the mountain lion was toying with him. "Give me a little, then take it away," Caleb said aloud, looking around, glancing up at any tree branches above him. He stood still for a moment, listening, letting his breathing subside, almost as if he were meditating. He sniffed at the air, taking notice of the direction. He closed his eyes, feeling the warm sun against his back. Stray sounds drifted towards him.

Nothing. No twigs snapping. No rustling further up the mountain. Quiet.

Caleb knew from experience not to give up so easily. Long term, he told himself, as he surveyed his surroundings. He had reached a section of the mountain range where no one ever traveled. Below him was FR 413, the main artery that contoured around the mountain and higher up was a forest of pine. The Black Hills had more than several wilderness areas like the Woodchute, Cedar Bench, and Pine Mountain, ample places for an animal to disappear. Although hunting was prevalent in the region it really only concentrated on a few wilderness areas, leaving vast tracts of untouched habitat. He knew the hunters in the valley didn't progress far into the outer reaches of the mountains, preferring to remain near the old mining roads and the marked forest roads. He also realized that he was treading on dangerous ground, on the cougar's playing field, with plenty of cover and forest to provide shadows and vegetation.

Suddenly he got that feeling he always felt when he was on duty in the Army, fear laced with anticipation. Reflexively, he raised his rifle up to give it a quick inspection, making sure his solitary round was in the chamber. Then it seemed almost comical to him. He was out, alone, in the wilderness tracking a rogue mountain lion that had brutally killed four people. It didn't seem possible.

Caleb circled the area where he had last seen a spore, searching. On the first sweep he found nothing, so he extended the circle out wider. Again, nothing. Wider. Nothing. Further out. Finally he found just a trace of a print wedged next to a stone on the ground. It was fresh. He checked the sun, which had begun its descent behind the 7000 ft mountains. Darkness would envelope him soon so he made for a part of the forest he would feel relatively safe camping for the night. Staring up the mountain, looking at the gathering sunset with its orange bloom of color, he said aloud: "I'm not suicidal, you know." He directed his comment to the wild, knowing night time brought him into the cougar's world. "Tomorrow, tomorrow I find you."

He found a natural impression in the earth on the side of the mountain and set up camp, gathering up some firewood for the night. He hoped the cougar hadn't moved on, making it all the more difficult for him to track in the morning. Caleb would have to pick up his pace, even though he realized that this type of hunting required persistence more than anything else. There was no time to build a wickiup, a lean-to out of limbs and branches. He had to keep mobile, ready to move on to the next section of the mountain.

The last of his home made jerky was eaten. He would have to trap some game for his next dinner, he thought, as he roasted some agave on a flat rock by the fire he had sliced off a plant earlier in the day, chewing it to extract the aquamiel content, knowing he was going to need carbohydrates to keep him fueled. Then he brewed a cup of tea from Mormon tea plant leaves that grew in the area. His grand father had taught him what and what not to eat in the wild. By being observant, and careful, he could be almost self sufficient for extended stays in the wilderness, living off the plants and what he hunted. Prickly pear pads, yucca flowers, white watercress with a peppery taste, it was possible to survive.

Normally, Caleb found the last rays of sunlight when out in the wilderness a tranquil time of day, one where he would settle down and rest his tired body after a full day of exploring, hunting, discovering. His muscles would be sore. For a while he could still feel the straps of his backpack boring into his shoulders even though he had removed the pack. Blisters on his toes, inevitably. His hands would be cramped from carrying his rifle. Hunger would be pestering his stomach, gnawing impatiently. Yet, he would be content as he settled into his next camp site.

This isn't hunting, he told himself. He knew, realized that the axis that any interaction with the animal world had been tilted and was reeling out of control. Meat. The challenge. Ego. Trophy. Camaraderie. Items on a list and all pertinent in a different scenario. Now, he was stepping beyond any expectations, hopes, or wishes. No calls to a taxidermist. No digital record forever trapped in a cell phone memory. No bragging. No customary or satisfactory outcome.

A chill cascaded down the mountain side. Birds grew silent. Little feet scampered through the bushes. A short, bugle call from a lonely elk echoed briefly and was swallowed up by the black of night. Caleb sat before his fire and tried not to think about the next few hours. He would be up before dawn, hoping to be ahead of the first rays of sunlight sneaking up over the Mogollon Rim across the Verde Valley. Morning dew would provide, he hoped, some easier tracking conditions.

Thoughts of the cougar came and went, while he tried to imagine where the cat had settled in for the night. Think. Anticipate the mountain lion's next move. He has just killed. He won't be hunting again so soon. He must have a den near here. Where are the patterns to the mountain lion's behavior? Ignore the patterns. This cougar doesn't exhibit any. He is unique. Deadly. A menace. Pathological.

Caleb laughed at his thoughts, wondering why he imagined he could analyze an animal. He watched as the fire started to burn down, giving off a hypnotic hue. There had been so many campfires he built, starting from when his grand father insisted he make them when he was very young. It was a vital skill, he was told. Like many others.

At first he didn't think he had heard anything, just another sound of the night. Then there it was again, this time closer, very close. Caleb stared past the dying fire into the coal black of night, watching. Again, this time sharp, almost insistent. His eyes were adjusting to the gloom. There. Close. A vague tone of greeting, like someone who isn't sure whether they know the other person or not.

Caleb recognized the hiss and then a quick growl. Alarmed, he tossed another branch on the fire and the flames danced upwards, giving off more light. I hear you prowling, he wanted to say, but his throat had gone dry. The underbrush crackled for an instant and it was quiet again. He slowly reached over and grabbed his rifle, moving into a kneeling position. "Into the jaws of death/Into the mouth of hell," he muttered, remembering what one of his fellow NCO's used to say every time they were about to go back into a combat situation. He had always thought it was a macabre thing to say because it was written by Tennyson about a failed mission in a war no one remembered.

"I'm not intimidated," Caleb finally called out, standing up, leveling his rifle at the darkness beyond the fire light. There was an explosion of noise off to his right and then he could hear rustling through the forest and it was quiet again. "Maybe a little," he added, forcing a laugh.

Rachel had set out from the top of Mingus Mountain, parking her car at a trailhead near the communication towers that loomed over the tallest peak. She knew the area well, having gone on hikes many times in the past couple of years. Standing at the top of the mountain, she looked down at the valley floor below, deciding where to begin. Through her binoculars she could make out the Verde River snaking across the valley southward towards Camp Verde. She had worked out a plan to gradually make her way down from the top, making arcing sweeps as she went, hoping to detect traces of any cougar's movements, tell tale signs that the cat had moved up from the river bed and was using the Black Hills as his home habitat.

She knew the ecosystem supported black bears, deer, and elk. It also supplied an environment large enough for a large predator to roam mostly undetected. Accept for a small presence of private buildings at the top of Mingus Mountain, a seasonal community with very few residents who took up residence in the summer, the small mountain range was uninhabited for large stretches of open forest. It would be relatively easy for a large animal to remain hidden.

Using her GPS device, she plotted a grid, north to south, concentrating on the east side of the range first, the side closest to the population center of the valley. Although she knew it wasn't going to be easy she enjoyed challenges such as this, having done it many times before in her research. Biologists had to become hardened by failure, she often said to people who weren't involved in her field, trying to explain to them that what she did was arduous with, often, little reward. Science. Data. Documentation. It was about compiling information.

Mattie ran up ahead of her on the trail, stopping to sniff at spots here and there before running off again. Rachel took readings at allotted times and made a note of it in a notebook. At designated locations on the grid she had prepared she deviated from walking the trail to bushwhack across the sloping terrain, keeping a watchful eye out for spores or scat. As she moved down the mountain she would stop every so often to listen for barking dogs, fearing that at any moment she was going to run into Hollis and Travis in hot pursuit of the cougar.

They didn't seem to be in the area and she wondered if they had completely lost the trail, fooled by the cougar's apparent diversionary tactic back at the river. She knew their hunting skills were only as good as their dogs ability to find the next scent. Once you relied on a pack of dogs to do the work you were lost otherwise. Hunting, tracking, it was a gift that had to be cultivated, perfected.

When she reached FR 413, Rachel stopped for a rest. Already her forearms were scratched from bushwhacking through the brush and her legs ached from scrambling down the continual incline. She had descended over two thousand feet in a very short time. In the distance she could see the Red Rocks of Sedona shimmering in the rising heat like a mirage. At the junction of FR 413 and 493 she saw someone had placed stones in concentric circles on the ground. Several candles had been situated in the middle, burnt down to waxy stubs. "New Agers," she said aloud, laughing. It was a prayer wheel of some sort and she remembered hearing on the news about some people from Sedona going around the valley at various points and praying for deliverance from the evil spell that had been cast, resulting in the cougar extracting revenge on humans. Something like that, she thought, shaking her head in disbelief. Spirits. Evil omens. Ancestral misgivings. She wished Anton was there now to share a laugh with, somebody to help her deal with the mounting madness.

An alarm beeped on her watch reminding her to check the coordinance of her present location. Rachel made a note, as she rechecked the map on her device. While she ate an energy bar, looking up at the sawtooth outline of the Black Hills above her, she went over her notes, marking off quadrants. Mattie barked suddenly and she flinched, looking over to see what had disturbed her dog. Then she heard an engine grinding to the south of her, moving in her direction. A moment later she caught a glimpse of color, a blur, pass through some trees a quarter mile away.

Before she knew it a man appeared on the road riding a motocross bike, dressed in off road armor, with a bright red helmet. Startled to see someone on the road, he skidded to a stop next to Rachel. Mattie barked and ran around the man on the motorcycle, edging closer then back away when the man revved the motorcycle's motor.

"Hey," the man said, grinning, adding, "this the way to Jerome?"

Rachel looked at the man, judging him to be in his early thirties, and nodded yes, pointing in the direction where the town was. "Stay on this road. You'll run right into it."

"I'm from Utah," the man told her, apropos of nothing. "You?"

"Phoenix," Rachel replied, jerking her thumb towards the south.

The man thought for a moment then asked, "Heard about that mountain lion business?" Rachel nodded yes. He looked over at Mattie for a second and said: "That dog your protection? They got signs all over the place telling everybody to be careful. Not to go out alone in the woods."

"I know all about the mountain lion," she stated, calling Mattie over next to her, telling the dog to be quiet.

He gave her a look, one that said she was being foolish for not heeding the warnings, then announced, "I think I might want to have a rottie or maybe a pit bull with me if I was you."

Rachel nodded, smiled, then said, "Mountain lions love moving targets. They can leap over ten feet in the air."

Confused, the man looked at her for a moment, then realizing what she was referring to, replied, "I get it." He laughed. "I guess I had better go full throttle then."

"You better," she agreed, smiling back at him.

The man zoomed away, and she could hear the whining of the motorcycle finally fade away around a bend in the forest road. Rachel was alone again, with Mattie. She took the fold up canvas doggie bowl out of the pack on her dog's back and poured some water in it. They were going to be on the move for hours and she didn't want to have her dog overheat. The next few days were going to be full of long hours hiking, with little time to rest.

By late afternoon, she had covered enough sectors on her map that she was satisfied she had gotten a good start towards tracking where the cougar might have headed after the attack down by the river. Rachel had debated with herself about staying out overnight alone. Although she liked to display a lot of bravado she was worried. Even with Mattie she was, basically, defenseless, knowing full well her dog wasn't going to be much of a match against a large cougar, especially one that was unpredictable as this one.

Back in Phoenix her colleagues had weighed in with their comments, leaving messages on her voice mail and text messages that she should be cautious and to not follow her usual research habits. Extraordinary measures. Different protocol. Protection. It all went against her beliefs, her research techniques that she had developed over the years.

Finally, after wavering, unable to decide, she was left stranded too far from her car to return before nightfall. Subconsciously, you wanted to hang here, she told herself, chuckling. "Deathwish, maybe," she said aloud, drawing Mattie's attention. She perked up her ears and looked at Rachel quizzically. Now I got to find a decent spot to camp, she thought, looking around the forest for a good place to set up her small tent. In a stand of ponderosa pine she found an open spot with a natural level shelf. The surface was soft dirt and there was plenty of fallen branches for firewood nearby.

Caleb lay under a fallen pine tree a hundred feet up the mountain from where Rachel had stopped to set up her camp. Undetected. Concealed by a blind he had constructed out of dead branches. He had heard Mattie barking from a distance before he ever saw them approach. Then he saw them appear, off trail, slowly making their way up towards him. Dog. Woman. It seemed unusual, paticularly since wilderness visits had been discouraged, with talk of restricting activity totally by the ranger districts. He watched them come inexorably closer to his concealed position.

What am I going to do now? he wondered, remaining motionless in his hiding spot. Caleb had been tracking the cougar all that morning, finally stopping to wait until dusk to see if the mountain lion might retrace his steps back up the mountain. He realized ambushing a predator that lived by that hunting technique was a long shot but he knew that he wasn't going to be able to keep pursuing the cat, hoping to catch up with him on foot.

He watched as, unbelievably, Rachel stopped not thirty feet away from him and began unloading her backpack. She quickly erected her backpack tent and dug out a spot for her campfire. Then she gathered up some firewood, stopping now and again to refer to some electronic equipment, mumbling to herself or calling out to the dog.

This whole fucking mountain and she stops here to camp, he thought, cursing silently. What is she doing here anyway? he wondered. Doesn't she know there's a killer cat out there? Is she crazy? I hope that damn dog doesn't pick up my scent. They are down wind, for now. I can't just stay here all night. I wanted to be down the mountain at dawn. Should I just reveal myself now, before it gets totally dark? Isn't that going to totally freak her out? I hope she's not carrying a gun. What am I going to say to her? Hi, nice weather for camping. Hear about that killer cat?

He mulled over his options while Rachel started to prepare her freeze dried dinner. She had the fire going quickly and then added some last minute entries to her notebook after consulting the GPS coordinances on the map. Normally, she would be relaxed, content, ready for another night in the wild, something she always looked forward to. Now she thought about the piece of dead wood she had picked up when collecting firewood, hoping that it might serve as a weapon. Even though she did have a knife, one with an adequately sized blade, she knew that would be next to worthless against a determined mountain lion. She hoped at the very least the small tree limb would keep the cougar at bay if she brandished it aggressively enough.

Caleb finally had to make a decision. He knew he had to reveal himself, even if she pulled out a hand gun and shot him. He hadn't seen any rifles so he knew at least there was a range issue in his favor. I can always duck, he whispered.

He stood up slowly, dreading what he had to do. Standing there, enduring the awkward situation, Caleb watched her, waiting for her to notice his presence. He tried to say something, twice, but couldn't think of anything to say. Finally, Mattie saw him and began to growl and bark, startling her. She turned around quickly, expecting the worst.

"Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," Caleb called out, holding his hands up in front of him. Then he realized in one hand was his rifle so he lowered that hand down next to his side. "I was just--"

"What are you doing?" she asked accusingly, staring at him, trying to decide what she should do next.

"Nothing," he called out, laughing inadvertently. "I was hunting and--"

"Where did you come from?"

"Come from?"

"I didn't see anybody around here before," she stated, eyeing him suspiciously.

"I was concealed here...next to this knock down," he explained, pointing to the fallen tree behind him. "I was tracking the mountain lion, so I set up an observation point...some place I could watch for--"

"You are tracking the cougar?" she exclaimed incredulously. "Really. You are out here looking for the mountain lion?"

"Yeah," he answered, smiling. "Does that surprise you or something?"

She thought for a moment, judging the situation. Who would be out here lying under a tree waiting for a mountain lion? Every nut in Arizona was in on it now, she thought. With all of the media attention she knew it was bound to get crazier and crazier. This guy was proof positive of that.

"I guess not," she told him. "What makes you think the cougar is going to come this way?" she asked, curious. "It's a pretty big mountain."

Caleb shrugged and stepped closer. Mattie growled at him and started barking again. Rachel quieted her dog. "I've been tracking him for two days...more really. He likes to take this route down to 413 for some reason. Probably because there's a spring right down there to the left. The water pools up under some rocks. Makes for a good water source. Got my water there too."

"Hope you purified it," she announced.

Caleb gave her a look, one that said he wasn't stupid and said, "Boiled it."

"Tabs, they are easier and probably more effective," she stated, calling Mattie back over by her side.

"What are you doing out here?" he asked her, wondering if he should come closer, unsure if their conversation had established a different dynamic between them. "There is a killer cat out there."

"I'm a biologist," she replied, trying not to sound too condescending. "I'm suppose to find out what makes this cougar tick. Kinda my job."

"Job?" he declared, smirking. "Hope you get hazardous pay," he joked. "Last night I was visited by the damn thing. Came around to scare me I guess."

"What?" she spat out in disbelief. "Are you sure it was the cougar or a cougar? Could have been any animal."

"Unless skunks and squirrels suddenly starting growling I think it was the mountain lion," Caleb replied, laughing. "I'm not ashamed to say I almost shit my pants. I've done a lot of hunting before but I've never been hunted by the other side, so to speak."

Rachel looked at him, studying his features for a moment in the fading light. She noticed the desert camouflage military boonie hat then realized he was the man she saw cross the river and head up the mountain. She also realized he was handsome in a rugged way, with a slender build and what her mother would have called "honest eyes."

"You were down by the river yesterday," she announced, watching his reaction. "I saw you cross the river through my binoculars. I was down there at the crime scene."

Caleb, taken back for a moment, shrugged and said, "Thought I'd give it a try."

"Try?"

"I've been hunting in this valley every since I was twelve years old," he stated proudly. "I know the area pretty good. Seen every arroyo and ridge there is probably."

"You've never seen anything like this cougar," she declared, shaking her head slowly. "I've never seen anything like this before. Never. This cat is different, different in a way that I still don't know what to think. It...the cougar has jumped its instinctual proclivities and has become comfortable outside of any natural instincts, like it was bred to be a predator across the spectrum. I know that sounds ridiculous but--"

"Not to me," he told her, smiling. "I really think he visited me last night to intimidate me. Okay, I know that sounds insane but there was something strange about the whole thing. It wasn't trying to ambush me or surprise me in anyway. The damn thing let me know it was out there. I betcha never heard of anything like that before."

Rachel shook her head no and said, "So you've been tracking his movements and they lead up and down around here."

"Yeah, I haven't found his den yet though," Caleb said, noticing as he stepped closer that she was pretty and it surprised him because it had been so long since he noticed women's looks. After returning from the war he had removed himself so thoroughly from any social setting he had forgotten what it was like to act around other people, especially women. "You are the expert. Is it possible that the cougar doesn't even have a permanent type den? Maybe it is roaming continually."

"Not usually," she replied, wondering if she should invite him over to the campsite. They were two people out in the wild, two people in search of a rogue mountain lion. "Males like to establish their territory and they do have a large, open range but it would be unusual for the cat to not at least have a semi-permanent den, some place to return to after they hunt."

"I don't think I can corner him if I don't find his den," Caleb suggested, changing the rifle from one hand to the other.

"Listen, are you hungry?" she suddenly found herself asking. "I have some camping food--if you like that sort of thing. I mean since you are out here...and I'm here, we might as well compare notes."

"Sure. Okay. I don't know what camping food is but I am hungry," he said, laughing, as he edged his way closer to her campsite, unsure of himself. He was used to being alone in the forest, never interacting with other people. It was his usual habit to steer away from any other campers when he was in the wilderness.

"It's freeze dried. Just add water and heat it up," she explained, puzzled about his ignorance of camping supplies. "What do you eat when you are out in the woods? Tree bark?"

He laughed and said, "My jerky mostly, along with what I trap and shoot. Plants too."

"Plants? Really," she exclaimed, intrigued. "Like what?"

"Watercress when I'm down by the river or agave, pinon. Cactus sometimes," he explained, surprised that she wasn't enjoying the same food source the forest supplied.

"I hope you know what plants not to eat," she said authoritatively. "Jimson, prickly poppy, they can kill you, you know. Got to be careful. There are some poisonous flora out there to worry about."

"My grand father taught me what not to eat. Haven't died yet," he exclaimed, rubbing his stomach.

"Well, I don't think you will like my cuisine," she told him, snickering. "It's all vegetarian fare. Since you hunt and eat jerky it's going to be boring for you, I guess."

"I shouldn't cut into your supplies," he protested, trying to sound polite.

"Got plenty," she informed him, pointing to her backpack. "Tonight I'm having pasta primavera," she said, holding up the plastic bag with the dried contents inside. "Even got some dessert too."

It was surreal feeling for Caleb as he settled down to have dinner with an attractive woman in the forest, two people in pursuit of a killer cat, two strangers. Nervous at first, they both settled into an easy conversation, linked by an unusual bond. Although Rachel didn't like to admit it to herself, she was happy to have company by the fire. She had not wanted to permit herself to accept the fact that she was afraid, fearful about being alone in the wilderness with a mountain lion lurking. Caleb, for his part, tried to fight the emotions he was experiencing. Being alone and in tune with the forest was what he excelled at. It had become part of his personality after so many years. He too was enjoying being with someone.

"This isn't too bad," he stated, licking the fork with the gooey cheese clinging to it. "I usually just eat my own stuff and what I find in my snares but this is okay."

Rachel smiled at him and said, "Water and heat works wonders." She looked over at Mattie who was finishing up her meal over by the tent. "Hey, I wonder how come Mattie didn't pick up your scent before."

"Cliffrose," Caleb told her succinctly, grinning.

"Cliffrose," she repeated, confused. "Are we talking about cowania mexicana?"

"I don't know what you biologists call it but it grows all over around here," he explained. "The deer love it. I rub the flowers all over my skin and clothes. It sets up a scent barrier. Old hunting trick."

"That's interesting," she mused, watching the dog push the bowl around with her nose, trying to get all of the food out. "I thought you smelled funny," she joked. "You do know that isn't going to help you with the cougar. They hunt by sight mostly."

"Really," he said sarcastically. "Didn't know that."

"I deserve that," she said, laughing. "Sometimes I forget biologists don't know everything."

Darkness had settled over them, bringing a thick black curtain over the mountainside. They were now facing another awkward moment together. Neither one of them had thought about the sleeping arrangement, whether or not he was going to stay at her campsite. It was impractical for him to move on now and establish another site. Still, both of them couldn't bring themselves to broach the subject.

Then they heard the violent thumping overhead of rotors and the trees began to crackle under the wash of the helicopter. Night time flying meant it had to be the National Guard blackhawk doing sweeps, using their infrared vision scope. They had spotted their campfire and were investigating. Mattie was barking maniacally, as Rachel scolded her to be quiet. The helicopter hovered over them for a few minutes and then flew off, disappearing down the mountain towards the valley floor in route back to the airport in Sedona.

"Fucking idiots," Rachel shouted, directing her anger at the dark sky.

"Must have seen the campfire," Caleb told her, rearranging the campfire after the rotor wash had scattered some of the wood.

"They could have set both of us on fire, idiots," she exclaimed, cursing under her breath.

"Check for embers around your tent," he suggested, pointing towards the tent. "Better be safe."

"Good idea," she agreed, walking around her tent, bending down to inspect the ground. Taking the opportunity to say something, she asked: "Got a tent?"

Caleb shook his head no and said, "Sleep outdoors in the outdoors."

She glanced over at him, judging whether or not he was kidding and said, "Minimalist?"

"If that means I travel light then yeah," he replied, smiling proudly.

"Good for you. I don't know what I would do without all my gear. Really. I depend on it too much, I guess," she explained almost sheepishly. "Faux outdoorsmans, that's me."

"You do have a cute tent," he joked, nodding in the direction of the tent. "Nice color."

"Do I know you well enough to tell you to go fuck yourself?" she asked, laughing. "I guess I just did."

"And my feelings have been hurt, for the record," he jokingly said. "You can put that in your report or your notes--whatever."

Caleb unrolled his sleeping bag by the fire and settled in. He wondered if he was going to be visited again by the cougar in the night. Rachel said good-night and crawled into her small one man backpack tent, calling Mattie to join her. Caleb pulled his rifle close to him, as he lay there listening to the night time forest sounds. Although he knew Rachel had set him back by disturbing his hunting he found himself unconcerned about it. She was different than most women he ever knew. There was something unique about her, he thought.

Rachel settled into her little domain, with her dog next to her sleeping fitfully. She found herself thinking about Caleb, worrying for his safety. The mountain lion was displaying stranger and stranger behavior, leaving her baffled by the unusual developments. Only cougars that were rabid or suffering from habitat depletion acted outside the normal boundaries of wildlife habits. She was relatively certain this cat didn't have rabies and the ecosystem was healthy. Something changed. Altered. The cougar had become almost like another species. Mountain lions were hardwired to prey on certain animals and even though they did often attack livestock, plucking sheep and calves off of ranches when the opportunity presented itself, they were usually consistent in their hunting habits.

The night past without any disturbances. Both of them had slept very little, awakening often, lying there listening. Caleb had kept the fire going throughout the night, tossing on firewood every so often, acting almost as a sentry. At any moment during the long night he expected to hear the same hiss, then the growl, quickly followed by rustling in the dark. It's like being back at war, he thought, as he waited for the first rays of daylight to penetrate the forest.

It was cold by morning at that altitude, even though summer was near. Caleb awoke with a start, slowly realizing that he had finally fallen asleep, slipping into a deep sleep as he dreamed about a few of his buddies from the Army. He shuddered, more from the remembrance than the weather, trying not to recall the details of his dream, another installment of mechanized violence, complete with explosions and gunfire. "The VA has a hotline number, you know," he heard his mother telling him, pointing to the phone number she had stuck on the refrigerator, written in large numbers. His father would invariably glare at his wife for suggesting it. His son didn't need extra help. He was okay. Adjusted. Normal.

"Good-morning," Rachel offered shyly, suddenly feeling awkward around him. "I have to...nature calls," she announced, dashing down the trail until she was satisfied she was out of view.

"Hey," Caleb said, watching her disappear behind some bushes, while Mattie stood there eyeing him. "Sleep well, Mattie?" he asked the dog, smirking, as the dog bared its teeth briefly at him. "Love you too," he muttered, stoking the fire, as he added more wood for breakfast.

"Whew, been holding that for too many hours," Rachel informed him, smiling. "I hate to get out of the tent in the middle of the night. Especially now. How about you, sleep okay? I would have offered you a spot in the tent but, you know, its kinda small. Tiny."

"No problem," Caleb told her, glancing over at the one man tent. "Not much room."

"For breakfast I have some eggs--if you're interested," she exclaimed, rubbing her stomach. "I'm starving. I got scrambled eggs...organic. They are kinda gross really but half way nutritious."

"Thought you were a veggie only type," he said, smirking.

"I eat eggs," she explained, adding, "I'm a lacto type of vegetarian. We eat dairy."

"That's convenient," he exclaimed, immediately wishing he hadn't said it so sarcastically. She didn't seem to notice as she dug into her backpack and pulled out the packet for breakfast, where she had labeled the bag in black marker: 1st breakfast. Caleb noticed the label and said, "You are organized--aren't you?"

Embarrassed, Rachel replied, "Got to be. Sometimes I'm out in the wilderness for extended periods and you have to make sure you have enough food. It's a habit of mine to have everything I need. Call me obsessive."

"Be prepared," he stated. "I was taught that myself. It's a good thing."

Smiling, she starting preparing the breakfast packet, while Mattie drew closer, sniffing the air continually. Rachel pushed her away, scolding her, warning her not to beg. Caleb walked around the campsite looking for spores and any other signs the cougar had visited them that night. Nothing. No activity. He worried that he had lost contact with the mountain lion and that it would take him days, if not weeks to track him down again.

They ate the freeze dried eggs and crackers by the fire, washing it down with weak coffee. It all seemed like a weird domestic scene to Caleb, bizarre, something dreamed up by someone with a demented mind. Dog. Woman. Man. By the campfire. It was simultaneously ancient and contemporary, caveman or modern day, hunter gatherer, couple on camping vacation. It wasn't what he did. Ever. The last time he had been with someone in the forest was with his grand father so many years before.

Rachel busied herself with her maps, reviewing the notes she had taken the day before. Neither one of them had talked of their plans for the day, leaving it unspoken, as they were reluctant to think ahead even a little while. She wanted to complete the next grid, build data points, apply science to nature. He sensed the cougar had moved on, roaming, more pursuit, more victims.

As they were finishing up breakfast Rachel's cell phone rang, with the ring tone reverberating in the quiet forest like an electronic banshee. Caleb shot her a look of disapproval. He hated cell phones and fought hard not to say something. She didn't notice his frowns and answered the phone, speaking in low tones as she walked away from the campsite, putting some distance between her and Caleb. He watched her gesticulating as she talked, pacing, clenching her fist.

Her face ashen, Rachel hurried back to the campsite and started breaking down her tent. Over her shoulder she exclaimed, "Got to go. There's been another attack. In Jerome. Right in the open. On the fucking street. It just happened. About an hour ago."

"You have to be there?" he asked, unsure what exactly she could do at this point.

"Yeah, I got to be there," she shot back, rolling up the tent and stuffing it into its stuff sack. "I'm doing the analysis for the County. The forensics. I can't fucking believe the damn cat struck right in a populated area. A town. With bystanders watching."

"Did it kill 'em?" Caleb wanted to know.

"What do you think?" she replied, gathering up her cooking utensils. "I got to get back to my car and drive over there. It's going to take me forever to get back down to my car," she stated, pushing the hair out of her eyes as she bent over to rearrange her gear in the backpack.

"Call them up and get airlifted," Caleb suggested, shrugging. "They have choppers, you know. Use your clout. You are a specialist. They need your expertise, right?"

Rachel looked over at him for a moment, then smiled, and said, "You're right. I can do that. They can pick me up down on 493 in that open spot. Be quicker. A lot quicker." She dug in her pocket and placed a call to the Sheriff's office, using his direct line number he had given her. The Sheriff got on the line almost immediately and they conversed for a few moments, with her almost shouting into the phone. She hung up and stated: "Done. They are picking me up in fifteen. I got to get moving."

"Need for me to escort you down the mountain?" Caleb asked, knowing what the answer would be already. She shook her head no. "Pack up, I'll take care of the fire. Go. Make your rendezvous at the LZ."

"Ex-military?" she inquired, as she finished packing up. "I could tell. Guess you never thought you would be in the shit again back home, huh?"

"Not the same but still pretty intense," he replied, smiling at her.

Rachel slung the backpack on, quickly adjusting the shoulder straps, then gave the campsite a once over. "Hope I got everything." She gave him a little wave and started down the trail, then stopped ten or twenty yards down the mountain. "I forgot. Shouldn't we exchanged numbers or something? In case we have to consult about the cougar."

Should we? Caleb thought but replied, "Maybe we should." She took out her phone and he told her he didn't carry a cell phone. They laughed. "Give me your number. I'll try to remember it."

She shouted out her phone number and he made a mental note of it. "Hey, wait," she called out, "I don't even know your name. Isn't that funny?" He told her his name and she shouted out hers. Then she turned to go. He watched her hike down the mountain until she was swallowed up by the forest. Caleb repeated the numbers in his head, hoping he wouldn't forget.

Chapter 12 Ryan Paulsen: 5th Victim

He was forty years old. Just turned forty the day before. His wife had thrown him a party at a restaurant in Tucson they frequented, owned by a long time friend from High School. Ryan and his wife had grown up around the Old Pueblo, as the residents used to call Tucson. They had two children, twin girls, who were about to start High School the next year. This trip to the High Country had been an extended part of his birthday festivities. His wife, Traci, had been wanting to go to the wineries in the valley for a while, so they decided to spend a weekend in Jerome to tour the vineyards and wine tasting rooms. It had been her idea to book a room at the Jerome Grand Hotel.

They had laughed about the reputation Jerome had for having ghosts, with numerous reports of paranormal activity. The hotel was reputed to have ghosts regularly visiting the guests in their rooms. Ryan and Traci didn't believe the stories were real and that the hotel hyped the reports of supernatural encounters for publicity, but it still seemed like fun to Traci, so she booked a room at the hotel. They had never been to Jerome. Several friends had told them it was touristy and crowded, yet could still be interesting.

The day before the attack they had checked in at the hotel and while Traci read aloud about the hotel's history, how it had once been the United Verde Hospital starting back in 1927, then been vacant for decades before being renovated and changed into a hotel, they joked about being visited by ghosts when they were sleeping. Online, she read blogs about guests being accosted, gently, by ghosts in their rooms and odd noises out in the hallway, along with sightings of floating orbs. Benign ghosts seemed to match the hotel's wonderful Spanish Mission architecture, as did the location perched at the top of the town, overlooking the whole valley below.

They drove into town from over Mingus Mountain, having stopped in downtown Prescott for lunch along the way up from Tucson. The impossibly narrow and steep streets were choked with tourists out for a walk when they arrived and Ryan almost missed the turn off of 89A onto Giroux Street where the hotel was located. It was good to get away even if it was only for a short time, leaving the kids with Traci's parents back in Tucson. Ryan had recently started a new job and Traci had been promoted to manager at her store.

Their first night in Jerome they had gone to dinner then stopped at a bar to listen to some live music. It was good to be going out, Traci thought because with their jobs and the children they seldom took time for themselves any longer. Their schedules were just too hectic for any sort of entertainment. They both seemed to savor the moments together, alone.

Back at the hotel, after they had sampled too much wine at a wine tasting room, they settled in their small hotel room and joked about being visited by the resident ghosts. After they made love, Traci admitted to Ryan that she felt self-conscious the whole time because she kept thinking about ghosts watching them. Then they laughed at the absurdity of expecting unwanted guests to appear in their room.

The only noises Traci heard throughout the night was her husband's sputtering snores, which she had long since grown accustomed to. No floating orbs. No disembodied voices out in the hall, except for the couple in the next room who came back to their room after mid-night, laughing as they couldn't seem to get the door to their room open because they were too drunk. Then after they finally got the door open a deathly quiet seemed to settled over the hotel. She lay there for some time before eventually falling to sleep.

The next morning they wanted to get an early start because she had planned a day that was going to take them from Jerome to Sedona and over to some vineyards in Page Springs south of there. It was going to be a busy day, starting with breakfast at a small bakery she found the day before on a side street in town that served fresh baked pastries. Her husband had been cooperative so far, going along with all of the plans she had made, even though he wasn't much of a wine drinker and hated going to tourist destination locations.

That morning she had had to wake him up several times, with him each time drifting back off to sleep, buried under the covers moaning about having to get up so early. She persisted. He complained. Finally, just before eight, they left the room, heading for the tiny cafe several streets below where the hotel was located. To get there they had to walk out Giroux Street and head towards the Jerome Fire Station.

Just beyond the hotel property, where the town streets ended, it was forested land that reached all the way up the mountain. The town of Jerome was literally built on the side of the mountain, always at odds with basic engineering principles, where landslides and shifting soil occurred frequently. Entire foundations had slid down the mountain in years past, leaving behind vacant slabs where homes had once been. Building there was, in a fundamental way, foolhardy or, at least, ambitious and optimistic. Rain. Drought. Wet soil. Dry, dissected soil. Thirty degree, forty, over fifty degree angles. Hot temperature. Cold. Freezing. Expand. Contract. It didn't take a geologist to see that the pressures exerted on the earth under the footing were going to bring changes. Yet Jerome had been a mining town and with that came blind faith and a willingness to confront mother nature head on.

Now, after nearly a century, the town had made a truce with the forces of nature after battling so long with a stack of engineer's plans, stop gap diagrams and prayers. The frontier spirit lived on in modern day Jerome even as hoards of tourists took a piece of the town's soul every day, alighting long enough to walk the town's streets, and pay for the next installment in a continuing history. Traci and Ryan felt some of this atmosphere perhaps as they made their way into town, walking along, talking, eager, hoping to have another fun day in the valley.

Ryan made it only as far as the hotel driveway, cluttered that morning by cars slowly exiting and entering the hotel parking lot, trying to get by on the narrow street. Traci had stopped for a moment to check her purse to see if she had brought along her cell phone. She had recharged it the evening before, leaving it on the nightstand by the bed. Just as she found it in her purse, she heard the sound that she knew she would never forget. Ryan cried out, once, then gasped for air as he fell to the pavement.

A motorist saw the attack unfolding from his car, looking to his right just as the cougar leaped from the brush that reached almost all the way down from the mountain to the driveway. He saw the cougar land on Ryan's back and bite into his neck. It was over very quickly. Blood percolated out of Ryan's jugular, pooling on the street where he lay.

Traci screamed, and screamed. She would scream in her nightmares for months afterwards, but now she was frozen in fear, shock. Another motorist trying to exit the hotel grounds jumped from his truck and ran to Ryan's aid. He beat on the mountain lion with his bare fists, trying to dislodge the cougar. The mountain lion swiped at him several times then began to drag his prey up the embankment. With powerful exertion, the cougar climbed the steep hill, leaving a trail of blood on the ground. People hearing the commotion began converging on the spot. Someone asked if anybody had a gun, a rifle. Several were on their cell phones calling 911. Horns were honking on 89A where traffic had come to a standstill. Screams filled the air.

The helicopter banked away after picking Rachel up at the rendezvous point. It was her first time in a helicopter and the novelty distracted her for a moment. She peered down and watched as the land sped by below. Mattie whined next to her, nervous, unsure what to make of all the noise and the sensation of flight. In what seemed like no time at all they were over Jerome. She could see the flashing lights of the police cars. A cop was directing the snarled traffic on 89A, the only route over the Black Hills at this location in the mountain range. A deputy was filling her in on what he knew about the latest attack, while the pilot looked for a suitable place to land. She tried to steel herself for what she was about to do, again. Two attacks in such a short span, she thought, looking out at the mountains flying by. The pilot said something into the headset she had put on when she first climbed aboard the helicopter but she wasn't listening.

Already she was thinking of what lay ahead. More forensics. Another file. Data added to the other list of victims. The pilot brought them down in a parking lot the Sheriff's department and Jerome PD had cleared for all of the personnel's vehicles to park at. The Sheriff was waiting when they landed to shuttle her over to the site. As the rotors slowly came to a stop, hunched over, with Mattie on a leash, Rachel hurried towards a group of men huddled around a police car. The Sheriff shook her hand quickly and briefed her while they got into a SUV patrol car.

It all seemed disheartedly the same. Ambush attack. Surprise. Recognition. Horror. Aftermath. An innocent life ended. This time only the setting was different. The rogue mountain lion had struck in daylight and in a very public place. On a street in a crowded town, she thought as the Sheriff filled her in on the details as he knew them at that time. Witnesses were still being interviewed. A search party--posse in his words--had been organized and was combing the hillside next to the hotel. Helicopter sweeps had been instituted.

"I don't know how long I can keep doing this," she admitted to the Sheriff, who stared at her for a moment, surprised by her candor. "Really. I'm a biologist, not some crime scene investigator. This isn't what I do."

The Sheriff thought for a moment, listening to the chatter on the patrol car's radio for a moment, then said, "Extraordinary circumstances, Miss...Dr. Winters. We all have to pitch in here. We got to stop this son of a bitch. Right?"

Rachel looked out the window as the SUV crawled through the backed up streets, lights flashing, avoiding the stares of the tourists in the road watching them pass by. Word had gotten out. There had been another attack, another killing, one more death in the valley. A media van was trying to get through the roadblock. She could see one of the crew arguing with a Jerome cop, who was telling them, shouting, that they had to go back down the mountain.

The Sheriff was on the radio now yelling, ordering an underling to get on the phone and tell the network affiliate in Phoenix to get their helicopter out of his airspace. Now. Or else. He got off the radio and shook his head wearily. In front of them a cop moved the barricade and they glided through slowly. Rachel could hear horns honking in the distance as motorists grew impatient with the delays.

"I think this tiny town of Jerome is going to have a nervous breakdown," she said more to herself than to the Sheriff. "Not exactly a chamber of commerce day, huh?" she offered, trying to joke about what she was about to face again. "This cougar is an equal opportunity offender though. Gotta give him that."

"Good," the Sheriff stated, "humor always helps in times like this." He gruffily shouted out the window at one of his deputies, ordering him to get all of the people back away from the street. "I need this shit like I..." he said, letting his voice trail off.

The car stopped near the kill site and Rachel climbed out, keeping a tight grip on Mattie's leash, who was squirming and growling, not used to being around so much commotion. One of the Jerome cops asked her if her dog was a tracker dog and she laughed, ignoring his question. God, she thought, as she realized the body was still on site or what was left of it. Small cones had been set up to designate where there were traces of blood left on the pavement and on up into the brush. Chaos seemed to fluctuate on the perimeter, rising and falling with the amount of onlookers eager to see the latest victim. Tourists were snapping photos with their phones and sending them all over the country to friends, family, anybody.

The new widow had been taken back to the hotel, where she remained secluded in a room. Several enforcement people had already spoken with her about the ordeal. The motorist who had tried to save the victim was seated in the back of a police car. His statement had been taken detailing the attack, close up, a first hand account that said so much yet so little. A large, strong and determined cougar had taken a full grown man and dragged him almost a hundred yards up a steep hill into the brush and devoured half of his body before vanishing into the forest. Dismemberment. Gnawed off limbs. Claw marks. Bites. And blood spilled into the soil, staining the road, the dirt, vegetation.

Rachel took a breath and exhaled slowly, while one of the deputies led her up the embankment to the body. She saw the splash of yellow, the plastic sheet, through the brush that covered the victim. Here and there she stopped to examine, briefly, the trail of bloody remains, pieces of flesh, shredded clothing, a torn canvas shoe with a dollop of viscous entrails plastered to the shoe laces. She yanked Mattie away from the evidence and asked a deputy standing nearby if he would hold her dog while she examined the body. He reluctantly took a grip on the leash.

Kneeling down, Rachel removed the yellow tarp covering the body. "Right, okay," she noted, giving the date, speaking into her recorder, noticing that the head was intact and part of the face had been lacerated with the nose bitten off. A large incision starting from the upper right forehead on down to the right side of the chin lay open approximately an inch in width. She turned away for a moment to gather herself then turned back. The right arm was partially missing from the elbow down. Copious amounts of blood had oozed out of the wound, pooling in the soil next to the where the body came to rest. On the right side of the neck was a large bite mark that, under initial examination, must have severed the jugular immediately. She mentally noted that he must have died relatively quickly. The shirt had been torn away and claw marks were etched into his chest, running diagonally from his clavicle all the way down to his navel. A large cavity had been carved out of his abdomen and the heart had been removed, apparently eaten. Bite marks were apparent on both legs around the thighs, with the jeans being heavily shredded. In the remaining hand there was a clump of fur clenched in a fist. He clung to his attacker in his death throes, she thought, suddenly fighting back some tears.

I'm not going to talk to his wife, she told herself, while she finished up her examination, speaking into her recorder in a monotone, desperately trying to hold herself together. Around her, police personnel were busy with their assigned duties. Mattie barked and whined, wanting to get away from the activity. Rotor noise from the Sheriff's department helicopter hovering nearby reverberated up and down the mountain. They won't find him, she told herself, looking around at all the comings and goings around her. It would be the number one news story. Blogs. You Tube. Social media would explode. Everyone would be waiting for the next attack, wondering where and when. They would all be asking her for answers that she didn't have.

"Sheriff wants to know if you want to take a ride in the chopper?" the deputy holding Mattie's leash wanted to know, holding up his radio, waiting for her reply.

Anything to get away from here, she thought, nodding yes. He escorted her back to the SUV, yelling at some reporters who had jumped the barricades and were trying to interview the police personnel. Mattie barked and growled all the way back to the car, snapping at some bystanders who were shouting at the cops. Rachel wondered how long it was going to take before the whole valley came apart at the seams, leaving fear to take complete control.

"I needed to get out of there," she told the Sheriff when they got back to the landing zone. "Thanks."

"Get your work done?" he wanted to know, motioning for a deputy to replace the barricade behind them. "We are going to take a look from up above. Might help us clear our heads," he explained, trying to smile.

Mattie hesitated when they tried to get her in the helicopter, then Rachel finally lifted her up and held the dog on her lap. The pilot put the headset on her head and climbed in the cockpit. The rotors started up and the torque shook the cabin. Then they quickly lifted off and were flying over the town. Down below the impassable streets were crowded with people and cars. Police car lights still blinked in the bright sun. Her dog squirmed on her lap and she held on tighter. The helicopter banked away sharply then leveled off about three hundred feet above the hotel. The Sheriff's voice filtered into her headset as he told her the search had started from the street and traced elliptical arcs back and forth on up to the top of the mountain. Nothing. No trace.

Rachel looked out the window at the forest below. Except for various breaks in the trees she doubted they would be able to spot the cougar. Besides, she said into her headset, "I think the cat is long gone. He is an escape artist. Never likes to stick around too long. Somewhere along the line he has processed in his brain that killing humans means retribution, so he acts accordingly. Sounds weird but I believe that."

The Sheriff looked at her for a moment, then said, "At this stage I'll believe anything. If somebody told me this is the devil at work...well, hell, I'll take it. Bring in a priest. Shaman. I don't really care. Let's just get this thing done."

Rachel nodded in agreement, smiling back at him. "I am beginning to think that this particular cat is supernatural or something. I'm kidding of course but it sure seems like there's some sinister force at work. Really. Don't quote me though. I have a rep to think about in the scientific community."

The helicopter swung out over the town for a moment, then the pilot gained a little altitude and hovered almost parallel with the top of the mountain. Chatter on Rachel's radio headset annoyed her as she looked down at the dense vegetation. She knew it was fruitless to be up there flying around. The cougar was long gone, vanishing into a habitat that was going to be difficult to spot any wary wildlife. The Sheriff tapped her on the shoulder and pointed down on his side of the helicopter at something, smiling. Below she could make out several deer running for cover, disturbed by the beating blades of the rotor.

"Gotta a civilian on the scene," the pilot barked into his microphone, pointing up front as he tilted the helicopter forward slightly so they could get a better view. "Hunter?"

"Some damn freelancer," the Sheriff stated with disgust. "Probably thinks he can kill the mountain lion on his own. Whata you bet we end up finding his body out here in a few days?"

Rachel leaned forward in her seat and took a better look at the man on the ground, who had stopped to peer up at them for a moment. She recognized the boonie hat immediately. "I know him," she announced, amazed, surprised that he would have gotten there so quickly.

"You do?" the Sheriff exclaimed, giving her a surprised look. "Who is he? Does he work with you at the college or something?"

She shook her head no and said, "I just met him last night. Camping. He is trying to hunt down the cat like you said. Pretty intense guy. Lived here all his life. Hunted this area for years."

"I don't give a shit," the Sheriff spat out. "I don't need some cowboys out here getting killed. I told the mayors that I should have put out restrictions on hunting...or any outdoor activities until we caught this rogue cougar. They didn't want to screw up the tourist season. Now we're gonna have another dead body on our hands."

"He seemed pretty competent out in the wilderness," she explained, smiling at the Sheriff. "Knew his stuff. Then again," she added, shaking her head, "these are extraordinary times where all precautions should be followed."

"You bet we should," the Sheriff declared angrily. "We might have to bring in the military--boots on the ground type of thing to get this done. I can't have people dropping all over the valley for christ's sake. I mean this is becoming an emergency situation. Hell, it is an emergency situation. Now I got some yahoos out doing their thing in the woods, shooting up the place. I'll be damn if that is going to happen on my watch."

"He is ex-military," she stated, peering out the window. "Just back from Afghanistan recently."

"Gone," the pilot announced, pulling the helicopter back for a better look at the mountain side. "Must be shy. Disappeared in the trees. Good luck, dude."

"This is only going to get worse," the Sheriff muttered, exhaling deeply.

Rachel's phone buzzed. She had turned off the ring tone when she was doing her evidence gathering back at the crime scene. She looked at the screen and saw that she had several messages from Anton, two texts and a long voice mail telling her that he just wanted to see if she was okay. There were two texts from the media wanting to know if she would do an interview, one asking her if she was going to set up a tweet feed, live updates from ground zero of the evolving situation that was rapidly becoming a national and international fixation.

"Problems?" the Sheriff asked, raising his eye brows and pointing at her phone.

She shook her head no and replied: "Personal stuff." He nodded shooting her a look that he understood where she was coming from. "Media too. They keep pestering me about doing a fucking interview. God. Like I need that right now."

Chapter 13 Confrontation

Rachel couldn't get Caleb out of her head. His intensity alarmed her and she feared that it would all end badly for him. In the short time they had spent together she could see that his pursuit of the mountain lion had become an obsession, almost as if he were trying to replace something in his life, substituting a quest, the hunt, for an aspect of his life that seemed to be missing. Crazed. Determined. She didn't want to categorize it. Not now. There was very little time. The rogue mountain lion's pattern was accelerating. Kill times were coming more frequently. As with the cougar's choice of prey, the cat was now killing for more than just sustenance. As she thought this she realized that her colleagues would find her assessment preposterous, even mockingly unscientific. Then again, they weren't on the scene. They hadn't witnessed the aftermath of a kill.

"'Bout time you got back to me," Anton exclaimed, trying to balance his anger and his anxiety at not hearing from her evenly. "I must have left you a hundred messages."

"At least," Rachel said, adopting a jocular tone, hoping to massage the conversation and make it congenial. "Been pretty busy up here. You probably know we got another victim. In Jerome. Jerome! This is getting...sort like a bad horror movie. I don't know what to think anymore. Nothing is playing out in a normal, you know, biological way. It's weird."

"Like I don't know that," he said, unsure what he should say. "I got to get up there to take some shots but I'm having this thing, with my mom, right now. At the restaurant. It's backing me up."

"Anything wrong?"

"Not really," he replied, regretting that he had said anything. "She is freaking out over some business stuff. My dad used to handle that end of the business all the time. She is hopeless when it comes to those kinds of decisions. I never knew my dad did so much around here before. He must have kept the whole thing going all these years. She cooked and he did all the rest, I guess. Anyway, forget about that. Where are you? I'm driving up there right now. Are you still in Jerome? Are you going back out again? What about--"

"Stop!" she almost shouted into the phone. "I'm on the street right here in Jerome. It is chaos here. Panicville. The cops have half the streets blocked off and traffic is not moving. And yes, I'm going back out again. Got to. I need to track the cat again." She looked around her for a moment, noticing that a few people were eavesdropping on her conversation. In almost a whisper she said, "He's going to strike again and soon."

"Look, you can't do anything about it, Rachel," he declared, raising his voice a little, so much that a few afternoon patrons at the restaurant looked up from their meals. "Wait for me to come up there. We can go together. I still got my gear in the car."

She thought for a moment, watching the helicopter take off again from where it had left her and the Sheriff off. The temporary command area was buzzing with activity, with police cars coming and going. Down the street she could see Hollis and Travis' familiar truck, with a pack of barking dogs in the back. A deputy was arguing with them as they tried to get through the barricade.

More lurid details would go out on the airwaves that evening. Already the internet was buzzing with updates, complete with shaky camera phone videos from people on site uploading their clips. She could see the antenna from a satellite van jutting into the sky and a reporter working from a live feed. In one more step in the escalation, the foreign press had showed up and were sending out reports in several different languages. The madness seemed to be metastasizing.

"Anton, listen, you are not going to be able to get up here with all of this confusion going on and I have to get moving on this," she explained, dreading having to argue with him about it. "Maybe we can set up a rendezvous point later on; but for now I have to get going. Sorry."

"What? Where? How are we going to do that?" he wanted to know, pacing back and forth in the kitchen, while his mother shot him quizzical looks by the stove. "Rachel, listen..."

"Got to go," she exclaimed, hanging up. "Are you letting them go up the mountain?" she asked the Sheriff, pointing towards Hollis and Travis.

The Sheriff laughed and replied, "Nope. Been relieved of duty."

"Really," she said, smiling back at him. "What happened?"

"County decided they were too expensive for what they were getting," he replied. "Two fuck ups is the unofficial explanation. They couldn't find their assholes with two hands."

Rachel nodded yes and stated: "I have to agree with that." A deputy came up and asked the Sheriff about the traffic control problem and the Sheriff told him to let the Jerome PD handle it. "Listen, Sheriff, think I might get a lift up the mountain so I can get back in the field. It would help out alot." He nodded yes, even though he objected to having her go back out alone, offering to supply a deputy as protection. She refused the offer and pulled out a map of the immediate area to show him where she wanted to go.

A talkative deputy drove her up the mountain in a patrol car, asking her numerous questions about what, where, how she intended to catch the mountain lion. He kept shaking his head, unable to accept that anything could be done. He invoked god several times and told her that his church had been praying for weeks, trying to combat the work of the devil that had visited his evil on the valley. Rachel offered no resistance to his assessment of the trouble the Verde Valley was facing, agreeing, assuring him it would all be turned around sooner or later.

She asked him to pull off on a pull out a few miles outside of Jerome next to a road that snaked up the side of the mountain before splitting into two narrow passageways going in opposite directions. Rachel had seen it on her map and thought it might get her up the mountain more quickly and aid in her pursuit of the cougar's trail. The deputy pulled off onto the shoulder and turned on his flashing lights. She gathered up her gear as he came around to help her out. A few cars drove by rubbernecking, trying to see what the police car was doing. Mattie barked at the passing traffic and pulled against her leash.

"Are you sure about this?" the deputy wanted to know, concerned. "It ain't exactly legal probably but I can give you my extra hand gun to take with you. I mean you shouldn't really be out here without some kind of weapon on you, Ms. Winters. I don't think it's safe."

Rachel grinned at him and said, "I wouldn't know what to do with a gun. Probably shoot myself in the foot or something." The deputy gave her a look of pity, shrugging. "Thanks anyway. I'll be okay. Done it before," she explained, even though she hadn't come close to being in a situation like this in her career.

"Good luck then," he announced, getting back in his patrol car and speeding away, back down to Jerome.

Just as she was heading up the old mining road her phone binged so she stopped and checked the text. It was from Anton. He wanted her to text him the GPS coordinance of her location so they could meet up. Rachel thought about it for a moment then put the phone back in the cargo pocket of her hiking pants. Suddenly she was ambivalent about contacting him, letting him know her exact whereabouts. She inexplicably found herself thinking of Caleb. Why? True he was an enigmatic character, she thought and he was actually out there in the forest attempting to interdict the cougar before it killed again, but there seemed to be something more to it than that.

Pushing the thought into the back of her mind, she headed up the steep road, so impossibly steep she couldn't imagine any vehicles getting up it. The Black Hills were interlaced with dozens and dozens of such roads, pathways to abandoned mines long since dormant, all potential death traps, ready to collapse on any given day. Some were cordoned off with wire fences where the owner of the played out mines had placed warning signs of imminent danger for anyone foolish enough to attempt entering them.

Before long she was breathing hard and her heart was racing. It was an unseasonably warm Spring day, a harbinger of the coming summer months ahead in the valley. The sun had started its descent behind the mountains already so she knew she had to hurry in order to find a suitable place to camp. Before nightfall she wanted to see if she could get a line on where the cougar might have gone after leaving Jerome. Rachel knew the cat had gone up the mountain but didn't know which direction after that, towards Woodchute Mountain or northward in the direction of Perkinsville, a town in name only. Towards the south there were two campgrounds and although Yavapai County had discouraged anyone from going camping in the mountains at that time she knew there would be people foolish enough to ignore the official warnings.

One campground was popular with RVers. They would feel reasonably safe in their traveling homes, locked away from the outdoors in well appointed recreational vehicles. The other campground might have tent campers, who would be far more vulnerable. Surely the cougar wouldn't kill again in such a short time span, she wondered as she stood at a fork in the mining road, one direction going to her right and the other towards the campgrounds. "I wish you were a blood hound," she said aloud to Mattie, who perked up her ears for a moment. Rachel combed the ground in all directions in search of some spores to show that the mountain lion had come that way, but the surface was rocky and hard from lack of rain.

Then she saw Mattie run off, barking wildly. She stood up to see what she was reacting to and in the distance she could see the familiar boonie camouflaged hat just appearing over a ridge line towards the southwest. Her dog raced towards the figure bobbing on the horizon, appearing, disappearing, and reappearing in and out of the treeline like a mirage. Rachel called to Mattie but her dog had dashed too far away to hear. She took out her binoculars and tried to focus in the fading daylight, now laced with growing shadows that seem to creep across the undulating hills.

Mattie ran up to the lone figure and circled around him, barking, coming close then running away and approaching again, like a strange ritual dance. Caleb ignored the dog and peered out over the small plateau until he could see Rachel on the next rise. He waved. Through the binoculars she could see him smiling. She returned his wave and started walking towards him. Although Rachel didn't like to admit it she suddenly felt a sense of relief.

"I think your dog is starting to like me," he called out when he had gotten within earshot, grinning, while Mattie circled around him.

"She was only trying to protect me, I guess," she explained, smiling back at him. "So we meet again, huh," she stated, stopping short, uncertain what she should do now. An embrace seemed silly, and presumptuous. Shaking hands was too formal, and awkward.

Caleb, never one for being demonstrative, exclaimed: "I was hoping we'd run into each other again." Embarrassed, he added, "We might be able to help each other out with the mountain lion, I mean."

"I was thinking the same thing," she quickly said, calling Mattie over, telling her that he was okay and to stop barking. "I finished up my work down in Jerome and--"

"I saw the mess going on down there and skirted around the place," he explained, looking down the mountain in the direction of the town. "Unbelievable."

"Yeah," she agreed, "and it's only going to get nuttier." He nodded yes, shifting his rifle from his right hand to his left. "I saw you from the helicopter. Before. The pilot spotted you."

"Oh yeah," he muttered. "I didn't want them to spot me but I screwed up there."

"The Sheriff wasn't too happy to have somebody out here looking for the cougar," she told him. "He called you a freelancer," she said, laughing.

"Freelancer," he mused, chuckling. "I kinda like that. Freelancer. Makes me sound...sound like a modern day bounty hunter on the hunt." Then he thought for a moment and announced, "Nah, I don't like it. Makes me sound like I'm out here trying to make some money or something. Now I'm officially insulted," he joked.

"I'll tell him next time I see him. I'm sure he'll retract his statement," she exclaimed, smiling. "Listen, I'm glad I ran into you because I wasn't sure which way the cat went after leaving Jerome. I wanted to get right onto his tracks and not waste any time."

Caleb jerked his thumb over his right shoulder and said, "That way. The cougar zig-zagged a little bit then headed towards Mingus, I think."

"Campers," Rachel mumbled, using her binoculars to glass the hills in the distance. "I was afraid he might head towards the campgrounds over that way. There could be some victims there. It would be easy pickings."

"I lost the tracks right back over there but I think I might be able to pick them up again.

His spore is pretty distinctive. As in big as hell. Prize winner," he explained, looking out over the rise in the terrain, that dropped off precipitously towards a ravine.

They set out to follow the tracks together, keeping their conversation to a minimum, while Mattie dashed back and forth, stopping to check on stray scents along the ground. Caleb couldn't recall the last time he had been tracking game with someone else. It felt odd, almost unnatural. He hadn't been out hunting with his grandfather for a very long time, ever since his arthritis had gotten so bad it made walking difficult. Rachel, herself, hadn't done any research with another biologist in several years, often spending time alone compiling data for weeks at a time.

"Damn shoe," she declared angrily, stopping abruptly and bending down to retie her hiking boot. "I was supposed to buy some new ones but kept putting it off. Now this right one is killing my big toe it is so worn down. What an idiot I am."

Caleb stopped up ahead and looked back at her, then said, "Must be that load you are carrying. Looks pretty heavy. Might not be balanced right or something."

She glared at him for a moment, judging his intent, whether or not he was being sarcastic or not. Mattie sniffed at her shoe while she tried to retie the laces. "I know how to pack a backpack, you know. I'm not some weekender out here to pretend I enjoy the outdoors," she informed him in an irritated tone.

"I was just saying that--"

"I heard you," she spat out, standing back up. "Don't let me hold you up."

Caleb nodded in her direction and hiked on, picking up his pace, stopping every so often to scan the ground for tracks. He would bend down and mutter to himself, while running his hand over the ground. Rachel would take the time to check their GPS position and make a note of it in a whisper on her recorder. He would scowl at her for an instant then continue on, not saying a word. She started to stare at his back, watching him pick his way across the mountain, inexorably climbing higher and higher.

The afternoon sun bore down on them. She hadn't showered in almost two days and was now perspiring as they hiked up and over obstacles in their path. Fallen trees. Large stones dislodged by runoff. Thorn trees. It seemed like an unannounced competition between them now. He seldom looked back, just kept pushing on. Finally, she caught up to him while he was checking for more spores in a spot where the ground was nothing but hard volcanic rock.

"Whew!" she exclaimed, raising her arm and taking a whiff. "I stink. Let me apologize in advance if you can smell me, Caleb." Saying his name seemed strange to her, funny. "I got some baby wipes I'm going to have to hit here soon. Ever use those or is that too modern for you. Maybe you squeeze a pine cone and use it as deodorant. Just kidding."

"Used them in Iraq and Afghanistan," he stated, looking up at her, squinting against the afternoon sun.

"Oh," she muttered, suddenly now feeling silly for having made a wisecrack about it. "Thanks for your service," she added, after having heard people say it before so many times, a morsel of gratitude tossed out for something most people didn't bother to even think about.

He grunted and said, "There's a spring near here. I'm pretty ripe myself."

Caleb directed them towards a cleft in the mountain side, winding through a stand of ponderosa pine trees. Then he climbed up a rockfall, stopping to give her a hand as they scrambled over two large boulders nestled in a bed of bright green grass. She felt the marsh like soil under her boots and saw where small pools of water seeped to the surface. He knelt down and pointed to a notch in one of the rocks. Cold, clear water percolated out as it bubbled to the surface.

"Nice find," she praised, bending down to splash water on her face. "Make sure you don't get any of this in your mouth though," she warned. He gave her a look and she said, "I know you know that."

Rachel removed her backpack and took off her button up shirt she was wearing over a tank top. She took out a small bottle of dish detergent she packed to clean her utensils and used it to wash with. Mattie lapped up some water that had pooled around one of the rocks. Caleb took off his shirt and washed by another pool of water a few yards away. She could see a tattoo on his upper chest but couldn't make out what it was, some block lettering. Not wanting to stare at his muscled physique, she looked away, pretending she wasn't looking.

"My grandfather showed me this years ago," he told her, dipping a bandana in the water and then wrapping it around his neck. "I think he knew every inch of this valley."

"Listen, if its okay, I'm going to change my clothes," she said hesitantly. "The ones I have on are disgustingly dirty. Rank."

"I promise I won't look," he said, chuckling.

"It's not that I'm so prudish or anything but...you know, whatever," she muttered.

"Don't you want to compare tatts?" he asked, grinning mischievously.

"I don't really have any," she replied, then realized he knew that she had been staring at his. "Funny. I was just trying to see what yours said. Tattoos are creepy, really. I must be the only one in our generation that doesn't have one."

"I thought you might have one that said: Mother nature rules," he joked. "Something like that."

"They are skanky," she stated. "On women."

"On men they are sexy?" he asked.

"Under the right circumstances," she answered, wishing they could change the subject.

"Which are?" he wanted to know.

"Do we have to do this?" she demanded to know, trying to regain control of the conversation.

"Dona Nobis Pacem,," he told her, turning back to his washing.

"What?"

"That's what my tatt says," he explained, standing up and turning around to show her.

Rachel looked at where he was pointing, at the block lettered words in deep black ink. "That your philosophy in a nutshell?"

He grinned and replied, "An Army Chaplain, Catholic, hooked me up with this," he explained, grinning. She nodded in agreement and smiled at him. "It's from the Agnes Dei," he added, shrugging. "Don't ask me what exactly that is but I thought it was kinda funny, you know, a soldier in the infantry saying: Grant us peace. Let's file it under I for Ironic."

"I think I get it," she said, rolling her eyes.

"Look, it's getting dark. Might be better if we set up camp and then get an early start in the morning." He studied her reaction for a moment then added, "Or we could press on and see if we can beat the mountain lion to the campgrounds. We'd have to hump it pretty fast though. Can you do that with all the gear you got there?"

Rachel eyed him for a moment, gauging what her response should be, then replied, "I think I can keep up."

He noticed her irritated tone and said, "Only kidding. I wasn't slamming you or anything."

"Like I believe that," she shot back but found herself laughing.

"I have to make one stop before we get up to the top," he informed her.

They headed off over the ridge, picking up another disused trail that was mostly overgrown. Caleb warned her about rattlesnakes and she told him she had probably seen more rattlers than he could count. They both laughed.

He led them towards some thick brush a quarter mile up the mountain, stopping by a runoff that carved out a two foot gully in the soil. Mattie saw the squirrel first and hurried up to where the animal was flailing around, trapped in a snare that Caleb had set the day before. He shooed the dog away and quickly killed the frightened animal with his knife. Although she wasn't squeamish, Rachel found herself looking away.

"Hillbilly steak," she said sarcastically.

"Dinner," he stated, holding up the small critter, while Mattie jumped up and down, trying to snag the squirrel out of his hand.

Before long they were enveloped by darkness so they stopped for a moment so Rachel could put on her headlamp, while he used a small mag light flashlight to light the way. Several times they stumbled over rocks and stumps as they pushed through gnarled underbrush, while small animals scurried through the bushes.

By the time they reached the outskirts of the camp grounds they were tired, with several nicks and bruises to nurse. There were only two tents at the camp grounds, one large five man tent and one two man. Apparently they weren't in the same party and had set up some thirty yards from each other. Inside the tents they could see battery operated lanterns illuminating the interior, giving off an eerie glow in the dark. In the small tent they could see the flickering light of a tech device and hear the staccato of spoken dialogue, along with the lilt of a soundtrack in the background. Voices could be heard, murmurs, in the large tent, two children shouting gleefully as they apparently played some sort of card game.

"Children?" Rachel uttered, keeping her voice low. "What parent takes their kid out camping at a time like this? Are they insane?"

Caleb leaned in close, so close she could almost feel his hair brush against her face, and said, "If you don't already know, people around here are nuts." They both giggled conspiratorially. "They should make people pass a test in order to become parents."

She laughed again and whispered, "Would it do any good to warn them? I mean I kind of doubt it. They might not have heard about the Jerome attack. And I know they don't know the cougar might be heading this way."

He could smell a trace of her shampoo she had used in her last shower and he thought about the last time he had been this close to a woman. He couldn't remember. What a thing to think about now, he thought, grimacing, displeased with himself. "I doubt they are going to pull up stakes now and drive back to where ever they came from. Probably a bad idea. Maybe we should just hang back. Set up near here and talk to them in the morning. Or we could keep watch, if you want to."

"Do you?"

He suppressed a laugh and said, "Not really. I'm nobody's keeper, I guess."

They elected to set up camp away from the campground, hoping that nothing would happen, and that morning would come without any attack. It still left them vulnerable as well, as Caleb led the way towards a level tract of forest in order to set up for the night. He then gathered up some firewood, telling Rachel to break out her tent and other gear. Using his flashlight, he found some suitable branches and other pieces of wood to start a fire.

Rachel busied herself with the tent and laying out the cooking utensils, while Mattie followed her around, staying by her side. He got the fire going quickly after digging out a hole and placing some stones around it. As usual, there was something magical about having a fire going out in the woods, with the flickering flame and crackling kindling adding almost another dimension to the gathering void of darkness all around them.

"I got a," Rachel called out, stopping to examine the label on the package of freeze dried food, "spicy rice and beans concoction." She looked over at Caleb, who was unrolling his sleeping bag by the fire, waiting for his response. "Sounds delicious, I know, but it's either that or mac and cheese. Take your pick."

"I'm okay, I'll stick with my critter meat," he said over his shoulder, smoothing out the bag on the ground, removing a few stones underneath.

"I got plenty here, trust me," she chirped, imagining him bent over the fire holding a skinned squirrel impaled on a stick. "I can't eat it all."

"I don't want to eat up your supplies," he responded. "We might be out here for a while and you are going to need all you got there. Don't worry about me." He walked over to where he had set up some flat stones and started in on the squirrel carcass.

"Is it because it's vegetarian?" she asked in a joking manner, laughing. "Now you are just out right trying to offend me."

He snickered, checking on the fire to make sure it was burning correctly, then replied, "You are a big girl. Deal with it."

"Oh, now you are saying I eat too much," she shot back, grinning. "You do have a way with words, sir."

"I can tell you, your body is just right," he offered, wincing at his choice of words. They were quiet for a moment, then he added, "I hope that came out alright. It was a compliment."

"Okay," she said, smiling at him. What do I say now? she thought, pouring some water into the cooking pan for the rice and beans. Nothing, don't say anything, a voice said inside her head. Let it go. Make your dinner. Let him eat his awful, tree rat. We both have a job to do, even if his is not sanctioned.

While Caleb sat over by the fire, slowly roasting his dinner, Rachel tried to feed Mattie but she kept lingering by him, raising her nose to the air as she smelled the aroma of fresh meat cooking. Every so often they could hear voices coming from the campers nearby, laughter and children's squeals riddling the night time quiet as the family competed in a board game to pass the evening. It reminded her of the times spent with her family when she was a child, occasions she cherished whenever she looked back on them, often commemorated with photos taken by her father. She had often found it odd whenever she met people who had never enjoyed the outdoors spent with their families.

In the firelight Rachel could see Caleb's face clearly. He would stare into the fire, seemingly lost in thought. His childhood had been different, a completely different set of circumstances, where he had been expected to live in the forest and to partake of its bounty. Her father had never been a hunter; in fact he was adamantly opposed to the hunting practices of the region where she was raised. Forest animals weren't to be culled by arbitrary dictates handed down by a bureaucracy intent on some hazy concept of wildlife husbandry. Deer. Bears. Even rabbits. They were the forest dwellers. Man was an interloper.

Her parents, unreformed hippies, had been vegetarians far before it was remotely popular, as far back as a time when they were thought to be peculiar, and suspect. No hamburgers. Or hotdogs. Same with fish, in and out of a can. She had never known the siren call of fast food, except for the occasional nibble from a friend's bag of french fries, always a greasy guilt experience because she never wanted to be associated in any way with the franchises around the country that perpetuated the meat industry and its subsidiary grip on the American diet. That Caleb seemed to be more attuned to nature with his predilection for fresh killed game didn't ameliorate her dislike of the end result, even if he did prepare his own jerky from scratch.

Rachel sat on a log they had dragged by the fire eating her rice and beans, taking breaks in between bites to let the spices subside a little as she gulped water. Caleb looked over at her at one point and laughed, mentioning that her eyes were watering. She took her glasses off and wiped her eyes, looking over at him through a blur of tears, trying not to think about how bizarre it all seemed. Was she really up on a mountain, camping with a stranger, in search of a rogue cougar? Who is this guy? How many more people have to die? Can she even do anything about it?

Mattie had settled down by the fire, raising her head every so often when the fire popped or crackled. A post meal serenity had settled over them. They were tired. Weary. Sore. Several blisters had formed on her right foot and she cursed not buying some new hiking shoes, instead trying to eke out some more miles on the ones she had had for a long time. Her shoulders ached a little from the backpack and she wondered if she could ask Caleb to massage them. He might take it the wrong way. What way? They were bonding rapidly, two people on a quest, like comrades. Still. She had noticed him looking at her several times, quick glances. He was socially awkward, she surmised. The war, or, perhaps, his upbringing had left him missing some social genes to develop.

Rachel was used to that type of male from her profession, where the men often had stunted personalities from having been segregated from females by the confines of the discipline of science or personally driven by ambition to accomplish something theoretical. Both. Sometimes they acted in concert. The mind of a man and the personality of a boy, so a woman professor had joked to her back in college, warning her not to expect too much out of them on the romantic front.

She worried about him sleeping out in the open again, vulnerable, easy prey if the cougar paid them a visit overnight. With mountain lions, you never knew when and if they were tracking you and not the other way around. Although she was confident that he was a skilled hunter, Rachel knew they were dealing with a different set of rules, a vastly superior opponent with physiological attributes that gave him an advantage out in the wilderness. Stealth. Cunning. The ability to go undetected, she reminded herself, thinking about her field work in the last few weeks, all the data collected detailing the aftermath of animal/human slaughter she had recorded. She wondered if there was ever going to be a time in her life in the future when she could forget the horror.

"I'm still wondering whether or not I should do a nightwatch stint," Caleb announced, still hunched over by the fire. "I got a bad feeling about this," he continued using a tone of fatalism. "Almost reminds me of waiting for a combat mission."

Rachel watched him for a moment, noticing that he possessed an uncommon trait, one where he was able to convey his thoughts in short bursts of content almost absent any emotion, like he was speaking to himself. Alone. Individualistic. That comes from his time spent in the forest, she wondered. Communication gets pared down, distilled. It seemed almost similar to a spiritual infusion of intent to her, something she mentally scoffed at, bringing a smile to her face. I've been around Sedona too long, she told herself, laughing silently.

"Aren't you tired?" she wanted to know, because she suddenly felt exhausted, spent, worn out by the drama as much as the physical exertion. "I'd liked to sleep for twenty-four straight if I could."

Caleb looked over at her and she smiled at him. His inherent shyness seemed to be melting away the more they interacted, but he remained reserved too. Part of him didn't care for having to share the forest with someone else. It went against the grain, his mind was telling him, even set up roadblocks for him. His time in the wilderness was about him merging with the elements, becoming attuned to the living and breathing environment. There was no state of the art full course meals prepared as if by magic or board games, with large glowing lanterns to light the way or entertainment on loan from tech gadgets, with music piping alien sounds into the tranquil airwaves and movies on portable DVD players. He was taught not to defile the experience but modern camping was about transferring your lifestyle into the woods, grafting on amenities so as to make it comfortable to be away from back there where you had come from.

"I'm tired too," he said succinctly, looking back at the fire. A moment later, he said in almost a whisper: "Might be the only chance I have to bring him down."

Him, Rachel pondered, shaking her head. He had personalized it. So had she, even though her training, her research, should have kept her away from that particular pitfall. It was a cougar. An animal. Simple biology. The animal/human divide had been breached, like an invasive plant that takes root in the soil and lays down roots, spiraling out until it chokes off all other native species. Man was the invader though. The cougar was fighting back. Highways. Shopping malls. Parking lots. Cars. Trucks. Bikes. Pollution. There was no end to it. The population increased, leaving less and less space. Yet, you couldn't anthropomorphize creatures. That was foolish, stupid, and futile.

"I wonder what I'm actually doing out here," she suddenly stated in a strained voice, bordering on being despondent. "Really, I mean I know what you are doing out here. I know what those campers are doing out here. With me, though, it isn't clear to me."

Caleb stared at her for a moment, gauging her degree of seriousness, then responded: "Research?"

She laughed at his comment and said, "Sure. Let's go with that. I mean I'm with a guy who is trying to kill the animal I'm researching. Makes perfect sense to me now."

He thought for a moment then replied, "Hey, Rachel, I really can't tell how serious you are being right now. These are extenuating circumstances, right? Killer cat, remember? I like animals but sometimes you have to do what needs to be done. I'm not going to try to over think it. That doesn't help anybody. You do your thing and I'm going to kill the son of a bitch. Make sense?"

"No gray areas with you, huh?" she told him, grinning. "Keep it simple."

"Oh, I get it. Now you are calling me simple," he joked. "I see. I know I don't have all your degrees or anything but I can read and write and sometimes I remember who the President is."

Rachel laughed and had an impulse to embrace him, hug, then let their mutual frustration melt away. "Yeah, who?" she teased, laughing.

"Now I know why you aren't married," he shot back. "Because you are a smart ass."

"So you got a wife back home waiting in your trailer, do you," she needled, chuckling. "Probably brewing up some more jerky fixins right now, waiting for her man to come back from the woods with more varmints to skin."

"Now you are getting way personal," he said with mock consternation. "What a man brings home after hunting is his business. It's sacred. Almost."

"Oh, religious too," she chortled, laughing. "You are full of surprises."

Then they heard the sound of car engines and saw headlights lighting up the trees. Two forest service pickup trucks and a police car pulled up in the campground parking lot and several men got out. Their voices boomed in the night, telling the campers they were being evicted, ordered to vacate. By Yavapai County authority they were closing down all the campgrounds. The mayors had been over ruled. Common sense had won out, finally. Tourism would have to be relegated to the back, for now, until which time the mountain lion had been removed.

They could just make out the campers complaining, as the police told them to breakdown their gear and they would escort them down the mountain. The people in the small tent squabbled with the police but reluctantly complied. Two forest service trucks pulled up next to their tents and trained the headlights on the campground illuminating the area so they could dissemble their tents. Despite the grumbling, they were gone in a short time, leaving in a caravan, with the car lights fading down the road, finally extinguished by the bend in the winding gravel road leading down to 89A.

"I guess I don't have to pull guard duty then," Caleb offered, as a penetrating quiet settle over them.

"Listen, I'd invite you to share my tent but it is kind of on the small side being a one man tent," Rachel declared, feeling somehow awkward about having shelter while someone else didn't. "I got my dog too. Makes it a tight fit."

"You know, I slept outside last time so maybe it's my turn to use your expensive tent," he joked. "You can keep the dog with you for company."

"You have a sense of humor as well, I see," she shot back. "I'm learning so much about you tonight."

"That's probably not a good thing," he said almost solemnly. "I'd better bring in some more firewood. Might be colder tonight. Listen, I'm up early--real early. If you don't see me around when you wake up...then, you know, have a good life."

"Wait," she exclaimed, "aren't we sticking together on this? I mean I thought it might work out better if we joined forces on this. Right?"

He thought for a moment, then replied, "Two different missions. Might not mesh too good."

"Sounds like you're dumping me," she told him, trying to make a joke.

He laughed and said, "Sorry, but from here on out it's all out war between me and that fucking cougar."

"And?"

"And that means I don't got time for any...partners," he explained, looking away as he stared back into the fire.

"This isn't just about the mountain lion anymore, is it?" she challenged, standing up to grab his full attention. "Right? You are now on some sort of whacked out mission--like back in the Army. Zeroed in. Ready for action."

He looked up at her then looked back at the fire for a moment and replied evasively: "Not your problem."

"Oh, Caleb, I'm well aware of that but if you think you are going to even find this cougar much less kill it then you have--"

"I'm kinda of beat, so I'm going to turn in now," he mumbled, straightening out his sleeping bag which was placed by the fire.

Sputtering with mounting consternation and a little bit of rage, she declared, "You do that. You might as well give me your parent's phone number because I'll be calling them after I examine your corpse out in these woods."

Caleb eyed her for a moment then laughed and said, "You might as well give me the phone number of that boy friend who keeps texting your all day long so I can tell him where to pick up the pieces of his--"

"Fuck off!" she exclaimed, exasperated, turning to go to her tent. Over her shoulder she called out: "FYI, he's not my boy friend."

The night time sound of the forest settled over them, what Caleb's grand father used to call: tiny noises. Caleb lay there embraced by the warmth of the fire, with his rifle by his side. He could hear Rachel encouraging Mattie to lie down and go to sleep, then the scratchy sound of the zipper on her sleeping bag being pulled up. I wish I hadn't opened my mouth, he thought. I should have just gotten up and left. No questions. No answers. Leave. Rachel slept fitfully. Her thoughts circling, she kept trying to push thoughts of the cougar out of her mind. Outside, not five yards away, lay Caleb, listening. He knew he needed some sleep if he was to continue on. Being tired he was used to from his tours of duty, time spent enduring the razor edge of anticipation and expectation. Now, it was different in that way where your actions are centered around an individual choice, locked into place by unfolding circumstances of your own design. Rachel. The mountain lion. Pending death. He was the decision maker.

Got to have a plan, she told herself, as she lay awake in her small, claustrophobic tent, while she could feel Mattie laying against her leg, breathing evenly, deep in sleep. She had ignored Anton's last two texts, quick bursts of concern, wanting to know her GPS location. The cougar could be anywhere and she didn't want to admit that fact. Her theories, guesses, hadn't proved accurate. Before, she had believed the rogue mountain lion to be holed up in the Woods Canyon area, existing near but far, able to habituate himself to two different habitats, living off the environment of a creek that coursed through the mountains in route all the way down from Flagstaff. It was, in many ways, virgin territory, a place that the day hikers didn't touch beyond the existing trail and was abundant with fauna and flora, providing plenty of sustenance for a skilled predator.

When that hypothesis didn't prove correct she had no back up. In her arrogance, Rachel believed she knew the what and where of a mystery that had now cost five people their lives. Hired hunters. Helicopters. Media exposure. The cougar had made a mockery of modern technology and was still at large like some lunatic psychopath on the loose. When she was in Jerome she had seen several people wearing t-shirts with the face of a cougar on the front and the inscription: Nature's Revenge. Was it? She had done enough research to know that her chosen profession was not in a growth industry in a time of expansionary development. To some of the public, the ones not invested so much in the outdoors particularly, contemporary society had become the evil empire and the animals were the revolutionaries fighting to be liberated. It was all preposterous. Then again, the t-shirts were selling for close to twenty dollars, proof that commerce could co-exist with transformative influences.

Rachel fell asleep, drifting off to the sound of Mattie snoring next to her, a note of comfort in her small domain. She slept longer than she wanted to and awoke with a start. Dawn had crept across the valley and she could hear a plane overhead, having just taken off from the small Cottonwood airport a few thousand feet below. Quickly, she scrambled out of her tent and immediately saw that Caleb was gone. Next to the fire, scraped into the dirt with a stick, he had written: Good luck. Until later. Smiling, she hurried to eat breakfast and break camp. Although her plans weren't complete she was intent on carrying on, hoping to find the cougar before he killed again, even though she had no reasonable way of stopping the next attack.

Caleb had left the camp hours before daybreak, sliding along the Mingus peak in route to the interior of the mountain range. He hadn't revealed to Rachel the day before that he had seen some fresh tracks heading up the mountain away from the camp ground. The other detail he hadn't divulge was that he had caught a glimpse of the mountain lion the day before, above Jerome, as he was cresting a hill. Further south, beyond, FR 132, there was another town called Cherry, a small community of people who lived in between Prescott and the Verde Valley. It was isolated, with a narrow, winding road that kept most outsiders at bay, leaving the residents to their coveted isolation. Using the spine of the Black Hills, the cougar could easily move undetected, even though the helicopter patrols had been stepped up. He knew he had to take a chance and proceed southward, leaving any other possibilities for a later time. Valuable time had been lost. There was no other choice.

He could make good time along the forest road, which was all but abandoned, free of 4 wheelers and ATV's after the Sheriff's department had closed most of forest access to vehicles. They had the mountains to themselves. Cougar. Two pursuers. The Yavapai county administration had now moved to a war footing after the last attack. Satellite feeds had mushroomed around the valley, continually spewing out the latest news about the rogue cougar to the nation and now more and more the world. Europe. South America. Beyond. Everyone wanted to know what would happen next in the small valley in Arizona, home to world famous Sedona. That wasn't any of Caleb's concern though. He was determined even more to find the mountain lion.

Rachel, after packing up, had made a fateful decision to bet on Caleb and his intimate knowledge of Prescott National Forest and the other regions in the area. He grew up there. Knew the environment more than anyone. And was driven by a desire to escape his recent past, to cauterize something in his psyche that was plaguing him as he hoped to heal the wounds left over from war. Simple. I'll just follow him, his tracks, and hope he finds the cat, she told herself, as she prepared to try to keep pace.

Finding his foot prints was easy. Caleb wore Danner desert style combat boots, the ones that left a distinctive five sided lug imprint on the ground. She just hoped she could keep up as he charged towards what he thought, he believed was his destiny. The travails of war had left an indelible mark on his thinking, burning a rigid set of ideals into his mind as he inexorably thought in terms of stream lined results. No failure. Victory. Another mission to complete. One more kill.

The day stretched out before them. Numerous forays by helicopters flew over, lifting off from the staging area at the Sedona airport. On the mountain an almost eerie quiet pulsated. There were no stray noises from energetic children at the campgrounds or the pestering sound of ATV's or dirt bikes going up and down the forest roads as usual. All the RV's had been forcibly evacuated, leaving behind vacant camping slots and nervous forest rangers manning the parks, sitting in their green trucks, edgy, keeping an eye out for anything suspicious.

Caleb found fresh prints not far away from the camp ground, proving that they had been right about the mountain lion's intentions. The cat, like any other predator, could be predictable. Fortunately, the cougar had elected to take a route southward along the forest road, leaving behind visible spores that were easy to read. Before long, as he followed the prints, he found himself breaking into a slow, steady jog, keeping his eye on the tracks. The road was mostly dry dirt, with the occasional layer of rock, which left a classic print that showed the tapered toe pads and indented footpad from yards away. Still, although the adrenaline was peaking, Caleb's years of hunting experience told him to slow down, be deliberate. He stopped often to examine the spore closely, making sure the cougar hadn't doubled back on him.

Rachel tried to keep up a fast pace, one that she ordinarily never maintained, but found herself winded after an hour. Her backpack was weighing her down, keeping her from staying at a fast jog for too long. Beside her Mattie was becoming overheated, as she kept looking over at her as she ran along, confused by the hurried pace, something they seldom ever did. In her research it was all about the opposite, where time was slowed so she could take notes and examine her surroundings. Finally, after just over an hour, she stopped to rest for a moment, laying down her dog's water bowl and filling it, while she took a GPS reading and drank some herself. Again her phone binged and she ignored it. A minute later it rang and she saw that it was the Sheriff calling so she answered his call.

"Where are you?" he asked almost angrily. "Everybody wants to talk to you."

"Everybody," she said absently, frowning. "I'm on the mountain. Actually I'm heading south right now. On 134...no make that 132."

"What? Are you heading to Cherry?" he asked, and in the background she could just make out several voices asking him questions and knew he must be trapped in a media scrum, with all of them wanting answers. "Nevermind. Listen, I need for you to get back here and take some of the pressure off of us. Can you do that?"

"You mean off of you--don't you?" she shot back, looking around, noticing that her voice was carrying out over the mountainside, remembering how obscene cell phone conversations sounded out in the forest.

"Okay, yeah, that's right," he admitted. "Anyway, I can't handle all of the hassles right now. Everything's coming apart at the seams. Hell, I don't know what to tell these people about any of this right now. We need an expert's explanation about why this is happening. That's you, Dr. Winters whether you like it or not. You gotta give them something."

"Put your phone on speaker," she stated, clearing her throat. She heard the Sheriff fumbling with his phone then several voices competing for his attention.

"You're on," the Sheriff announced.

"Quiet down everybody," she ordered in a stern voice. "My name is Dr. Rachel Winters and I'm a biologist from Arizona State University working for Yavapai County. I have been out in the field trying to pin down the cougar." There was a hubbub of noise as all the reporters starting asking questions at once. "Shut up!" she shouted and her reedy voice echoed out over the Sheriff's phone. "Stop talking. Listen to me. I want you to write this down...record it...whatever, okay? This is it: Stop making up facts. Now! Listen to what the Sheriff tells you. You are all making it worse. When I return I promise I will fill you in on all the details as we know it. Again, stop being part of the problem. We don't want anyone else to die out here. I'll say it again: Report the official facts. No more rumors. Sheriff, I gotta go." She hung up and started down the road again.

Rachel imagined how her words were going to impact the situation that had already been sensationalized entirely out of proportion. News feeds only increased the mania that had developed around the problem, with even reports of a movie being planned about the developing tragedy. Her colleagues back at ASU would be shaking their heads about how she was handling it, the exposure, which was threatening to become infamy. A wild animal had killed five people and was still terrorizing the Verde Valley. Her name was forever going to be linked to what happened in the valley.

Caleb stopped for a moment to get his bearings. He was beginning to get more of a feel for the cougar, his habits. Unlike many large cats, this one didn't mind moving about during the daytime. While other mountain lions preferred to hole in their den or on some outcrop of rock in daylight hours, patiently waiting for the grace period for hunting after dark, using their superior eyesight to hunt down prey. This rogue cougar was bold, confident, used to being the alpha with no competitors. Humans, to him, didn't inspire any fear. We are just another item on the menu, Caleb thought, steeling himself for the coming arduous and increasingly more dangerous task.

It was just after one o'clock. The sun was drifting past overhead. A light breeze blew out of the southwest. He had stopped to finish up the last bag of nuts and raisins and was forcing down some water that had begun to take on a sour taste in his water bottle. Caleb spit out a mouth full of tainted water and noticed something up the mountain move, a flickering, a flash of color. He scanned the hillside, peering through the trees. Might have been a bird alighting on a branch, he thought. Nothing more. He listened, standing stock still for a few minutes.

Turning his head slightly, Caleb picked up a stray sound, then it was gone. Looking down at the road's surface, he noticed some tracks tracing a path off the road and into the forest. Slowly, he moved off the forest road and worked his way into the brush, pausing several times to listen, as he let his eyes adjust to the shadows under the pine trees. There is was again, he thought, the sound, as he kneeled down to inspect the print scored into the loamy soil.

The mountain lion had gotten off the road, now aware that Caleb was in close pursuit. Like a good combat soldier, the cougar was improving his environment, making it more advantageous for him, trading the open terrain for the dense cover of the forest. Caleb found a few more spores and stopped to reassess his position. He didn't want to underestimate the cougar's cunning. Walking first to his right and then back further to his left, he tried to pick up any other tracks, something that would give him an indication of where the cougar might be hiding.

Rachel scolded Mattie for stopping too many times to check on another new scent, telling her that they had to keep moving. Her backpack felt like she was carrying a load of bricks and she contemplated dumping it by the road, leaving a cairn so she could pick it up on the way back. It was slowing her down too much. Even without it she wouldn't be much of a match for Caleb's pace. Finally, after another mile of trudging along, she hid the pack next to a crucifix thorn bush, concealing it with some branches. All of her previous years spent in the wild worked against her, as she had spent so many years at a slow pace examining her environment. She moved off without the backpack and felt immediately liberated, while she almost broke into a run, keeping her eyes on the forest road surface, visually cataloguing Caleb's boot prints as she went.

She had been hiking along for a few hours when she came to a rise in the road as it wrapped around the mountain range, contouring, before finally linking up with the road to Cherry. Down below she could see, through her binoculars, a sliver, a break in the forest on the uphill side of the road. A shaft of sunlight penetrated the shadows, bathing the ground like a landscape painting might. Rachel adjusted the binoculars, focusing, and then saw Caleb standing there, rifle in hand, with one hand cupped to his ear.

"This can't really be happening," she said in almost a whisper, shaking her head. Now we are the extension of civilization, there to bring order, rule, to the wilderness, she thought. The cougar was the villain, unable to accept the new order. Punitive. Correction. Nature had to be malleable, able to bend to accommodate. There was no other way.

Rachel wished he carried a cell phone so she could call, tell him that she was there with him, for him, there to aid anyway she could. Together they would set things right, alter it. She watched him for a moment as he went through his hunting rituals, kneeling, listening, smelling, watching. She saw him cock his head from first one side and then the other, letting his senses absorb everything. There was something almost spiritual about it, she thought.

Then he was gone, disappearing into the shadows, and she almost cried out to him, even though she knew he was much too far away to hear. Mattie stood by her side, looking up at her, puzzled, knowing something wasn't the same as it had always been before when they took to the woods. "Gotta hurry now, girl," she called out, as she broke into a run, heading towards where she had last seen him.

Caleb hiked up the hillside for twenty or thirty yards, wanting to take away the higher elevation from the mountain lion if he could. He knew the cougar wouldn't want to attack from a lower position. That would go against all of the cat's instincts. Think ahead, one step ahead, he told himself, while he moved in among the pine trees, going from trunk to trunk, bending under low hanging branches.

Then he saw him, maybe fifty yards ahead. The cougar had climbed up onto a juniper tree branch and was meticulously licking his paws. Caleb could barely see him through the foliage. There he was though. He distinctly saw the tawny coat, with a bit of white fur on the underbelly. He might have walked right under the cougar, completely unaware. Now, though, the tables had been turned.

He maneuvered around, slowly, quietly, trying to get into a line of sight that would allow him to get a shot off. The trunk of the tree was blocking his vision. Caleb knew he was only going to get one shot, one opportunity to end it, finish it. Although he was easily within the rifle's range of fire, he didn't want to take any chances of a miss.

The mountain lion perked up his ears as Caleb eased down the hillside, trying to avoid any twigs and fallen leaves that would make a noise. The cougar looked over once in his direction, directing his gaze down towards the road. Then the cougar yawned, long and languorous, as if he had nothing but time. Cocky, Caleb thought, continuing to work his way into position, on towards a clean shot.

From a kneeling position, Caleb raised his rifle, sliding the safety off quietly. He lined up the sights, gripping the stock a little bit tighter as he felt the trigger against his finger. His breathing slowed. He could feel the coolness of the damp ground on his knee through his pants. He opened and closed his eyes once, twice. The cougar's flank came into view, looming. Down the barrel of the rifle and through the sights his eye focused in, seeing a distinctive notch out of the cougar's right ear. It can't be, he thought.

Rachel heard the gunshot as it echoed up and down the mountainside. Mattie yipped once, and perked up her ears. She stopped for a moment, then broke into a sprint, running as fast as she could towards the sound. Her dog began to bark at her side as they ran first up one hill and then down another. By the time she reached where she had last seen Caleb the gunshot report had melted away, replaced by rustling leaves in the breeze. Up ahead, not far, she then heard a thud, a shout, and then nothing.

She picked her way through the trees, calling out Caleb's name as she went, almost blindly pushing her way through low lying branches as she scrambled over fallen trees. Finally she saw something on the ground and knew right away it was him. Mattie ran on ahead, barking. There, in a small clearing, she saw the body crumpled over, leaning against a rotting tree trunk. She called out his name but the word got caught in her throat.

Caleb was sitting with his back against the tree trunk. His rifle was a few yards away laying on the ground. He had a knife in his right hand. His eyes were still open but they were lifeless, staring into the void. Blood oozed out of his mouth. There was a gash across his face neck and chest. The mortal wound had come to his neck, one swipe.

Then Rachel thought of her own safety and moved away from the body, scanning the forest around her, fearing the worse. Mattie then dashed away, barking furiously as she went. She called her back but she disappeared into the forest. She could hear her dog's barks not far away, manic and insistent. Slowly, reluctantly, she followed the sound of the barking until she came upon the other victim, the cougar. He lay on his side, still breathing. Mattie circled around, taking nips and barking furiously. Rachel called her off, as she bent down next to the fallen cougar, who looked up at her with menacing eyes, snarling.

A splatter of blood coated her side near her left rear leg where the bullet had gone through. She knew it was going to be an agonizing death for the mountain lion. The cougar tried to stand back up but collapsed again and continued to breathe heavily, while his tongue dangled from his mouth. "What went wrong with you?" she asked, kneeling down next to the cougar. "Why did it come to this?" The mountain lion snarled again at the sound of her voice, trying to will his back legs to support him. "I'm going to make this easy for you," she announced, walking back to retrieve Caleb's rifle.

Rachel found another bullet in Caleb's pocket and reloaded the single shot rifle, trying not to look at his face, now frozen in death. When she got back to where the cougar lay dying the cougar had again tried to stand but fallen over, with the dog tormenting him with quick bites to the hind quarters. The cougar tried to lunge at the dog but dropped to his side, gasping. She came up and stood over the mountain lion, taking aim. "I have to do this," was all she said as she pulled the trigger, knowing she was never going to forget the sound. The cougar flinched and then his head drooped a little and he was gone.

Chapter 14: Epilogue

Rachel had dropped the rifle to the ground after firing the fatal shot, ending the rogue mountain lion's life. It was over. Done. Man has prevailed, she said to herself wryly, unable to believe the ordeal had passed. Months of terror had left everyone drained. Life would return to normal.

She texted the Sheriff: Cougar is dead. Then she provided the GPS position and waited, sitting down on the ground half way between the cougar and Caleb's dead body, stealing glances first in one direction and then the other. She had to steel herself for one more assignment, the last report, the final victim. She had come this far. There was no quitting now.

It wasn't long before she heard the Yavapai County Sheriff's helicopter rotors in the distance, coming closer and closer. Other personnel were converging on the location, driving down FR132, a cavalcade in jeeps and on ATV's. The news of the kill had already filtered out to the press, leaked by an overzealous mayor eager to put it all behind them. Move on. It is a new day. Months of bad publicity had to be expunged from the pubic's mind. Soon she would be mobbed by inquisitive reporters and she only hoped the Sheriff could keep them at bay.

To her surprise, she saw Anton walking up the faint trail leading from the forest road, tagging along with the Sheriff. His omnipresent camera was firing off shots as he came on the scene of the last battle between Caleb and what had become his own personal nemesis. Never shy, and always a photographer, he snapped a photo of her when he walked up, smiling, at last relieved. The Sheriff took a quick visual inventory and unexpectedly hugged her, telling her he had been "worried sick." Although she had promised herself she would not shed any tears, remain professional, she began to cry. Anton embraced her then and she buried her face against his chest.

The forensic team arrived and quickly set out to isolate the area. Yellow tape stretched between trees was soon fluttering in the breeze that was now coming out of the south. Radios crackled. More helicopters arrived, hovering overhead. Local feeds were beginning to buzz with the initial report, as the breaking news seeped out into the media blood stream. An almost audible sigh of relief was heard around the Verde Valley. It was safe again in one of the most beautiful places on earth, so said the anchor on a Phoenix local affiliate, with a wan smile.

"Did he shoot him?" the Sheriff wanted to know, bending down to take a look at Caleb's lifeless body.

"We both did," Rachel answered reluctantly, looking away.

"Really," Anton exclaimed, surprised.

"He was the guy tracking him that we saw from the helicopter," she told the Sheriff, dabbing at her eyes, ashamed by her show of emotion at such a untimely moment. "His name is Caleb. He shot him first...but only wounded the cougar. I'm still piecing it together but it looks like after he shot the cougar the cat turned on him and...well, you can see for yourself what happened," she explained, tearing up again.

"He couldn't get off another shot before...this happened?" the Sheriff said, looking up at Rachel.

"No, he used a single shot rifle," she responded in a low voice. "Said anything else was for amateurs."

"Got him killed," the Sheriff muttered, standing back up, exhaling deeply. "Man might have been crazy but I guess he's a hero now."

"How did you get involved?" Anton wanted to know.

Rachel looked over at him and said, "I was following Caleb, his tracks, because I thought he might be able to track down the cougar. So, by the time I got here he was right where you see him now and the cougar was over there, dying. The cat had been shot in the rear flank area and was still breathing. I don't know how it managed to still attack Caleb but somehow--and I'm still trying to piece this together--Caleb tried to fight the cougar off with his knife after taking a shot and not being able to reload in time to take another shot. They made contact right about here," she explained, pointing to a spot a few yards away. The cougar jumps him. Caleb staggers back to about here, with his knife in his hand. There are knife wounds around the cougar's head and face. The force of the attack knocks him down and then probably the first mortal wound is inflicted around the neck area. It was over for Caleb about then. He was going to bleed out," she stated, wiping a tear with the back of her sleeve.

"Damn, girl, you got all that already," the Sheriff declared, turning to issue a sharp rebuke to a deputy who was stepping on evidence. "I can't believe it. Like in the movies or something."

"You okay?" Anton asked her, latching onto her arm for a moment.

"Yeah, I'm doing alright, considering," she replied, looking over again at where Caleb's body was.

"So what happened next?" the Sheriff asked, turning the volume down on his hand held radio. "How did you end up using his rifle?"

"Mattie, my dog, ran off in the direction where the cougar had gone before it finally collapsed over there," Rachel explained, pointing to the south. "I found the cat lying on its side, bloody, and barely breathing. He was suffering. So I came back and got a bullet out of Caleb's pocket, took his rifle, loaded it, and shot the cougar in the head. Ended it," she mumbled, avoiding eye contact.

"Hero number two," the Sheriff announced, whistling.

"Not really," she muttered, glancing at Anton, who gave her a sympathetic look.

"Maybe somebody else can do the final report," Anton suggested to the Sheriff.

"No," Rachel said adamantly. "I can do this. I have come this far, from the beginning. I will finish this."

"Okay, the lady knows what she wants," the Sheriff called out, motioning for a deputy to assist her. "The deputy will help you out. Whatever you need, just holler." He turned and walked towards where the mountain lion's body was, saying over his shoulder, "Let's see the bastard that was causing us so much trouble."

"I'm going to take some shots," Anton told her, squeezing her arm. "Let me know if you need anything.

Rachel nodded and picked up her research kit, telling herself it was just another case, one last body to examine. The blood had now dried and caked on Caleb's neck. The shirt had been torn partially away and she could just make out the tattoo on his chest. A smudge of dirt clung to his right eyebrow. There was blood on the knife from the mountain lion. He was still clutching the knife in his hand, fighting to the end. She would have to sample it, the blood. There would be measurements to take, more data, categorical proof. A man had survived two tours of war and returned home to die fighting. He would probably laugh at that, she wondered, trying to remember his last words to her.

I will contact his parents myself, she told herself, in person. Although we had only spent a brief time together, I knew him, she thought. There was a bond between us. Linkage, that is what he probably would have called it, she told herself. Mattie barked and she looked over to where one of the deputies had tied her leash to a tree. Routine. Ordinary. One more field experience. In a low voice she spoke into her recorder, taking vocal notes, not wanting to let her thoughts lose any potency. As nearby she could hear the electronic whirl of Anton's camera clicking away, while he positioned himself here and there, eye to optical viewfinder, finger on the shutter release.

"Sorry to interrupt you, Dr. Winters," a fresh faced deputy said, standing a few feet behind her, "but the Sheriff wants to know when you might be ready to make a statement to the media?"

Rachel looked down at Caleb's waxen face then up at the deputy, finally replying: "Is never too soon?"
