The Cat Dancers

36

Finding White Eye Mitchell turned out to be easy. Cam drove out to Pineville, county seat for Carrigan County, and rented a cabin. He used his personal credit card to pay for it, so Jaspreet and her tigers would know where he was. He took one day just to settle in and tried some trout fishing, which gave the sheriff time to send his credentials and badge. The following day, he checked in with the Carrigan County Sheriff’s Office and told them he was looking for Mitchell. The man was known locally as one of the backcountry guides who took clients out into the Smokies. One sergeant said that Mitchell was in his late sixties, maybe older, possibly part Indian, part who knew what, but not someone they considered a problem. They’d even used him a couple of times to help search for missing hikers. That said, no one in the Sheriff’s Office could tell him how or where to find the man. He supposedly lived up on the edge of the park, but beyond that, no data. They suggested a tour of the roadside gin mills in Carrigan and perhaps Cherokee County and in the towns up on the margins of the Indian reservation. “Just ask around,” the sergeant recommended. “Eventually, the word will get to him, and more than likely he’ll find you.”

Cam piled the shepherds into the truck late that afternoon and dutifully made said rounds, bought more barely touched beers than he had in a long while, and struck out across the board. Only one bartender said he recognized the name, and none of the locals had seen Mitchell for a long time, especially now that fall had arrived and with it the end of the heavy tourist season. Cam told everyone he talked to that he was staying in the Blue Valley cabins off Route 16, that there was no trouble, and that he only wanted to talk to Mitchell. He got back to the cabin just before 11:00 P.M., brought in some firewood from the front porch for the woodstove, let the dogs run around for ten minutes, brought them back in, and hit the sack. The other cabins appeared to be empty, which was no surprise, given the season and the altitude.

The next morning, he was awakened by a low growl from Frack, who was standing in front of the cabin’s single wooden door, hackles up. Frick was trying to see out the front windows, but the outside shutters were still pulled closed. Cam checked the time and saw that it was just after 7:00 A.M. He got out of bed and pulled on jeans, boots, and a shirt over his long johns. Then he found the Peacemaker, checked the loads, and quietly ordered both dogs to sit. He opened the front door and found a swarthy, gray-bearded man sitting in one of the wooden rockers with his back to Cam. He was wearing one of those black mountain-man slouch hats Cam had seen for sale in some of the saloons the previous night, a sheepskin-collared denim jacket, jeans, gloves, and intricately tooled boots with, the tops of which were covered in deerskin. The man looked sideways at Cam, revealing why they called him “White Eye.” His pupils were a disturbing silver color, reminding Cam of animated ball bearings.

“You lookin’ to talk to me?” the man asked in a gravely voice.

“You Mitchell?” Cam asked.

The man nodded once. “Let me gather up these dogs,” Cam said.

“Ain’t no need,” Mitchell said. “Dogs don’t bother me none. And I ain’t carryin’, so you can put that hog leg away, you want to.”

Cam hefted the. 45 and then stuffed it into his belt. “Come on in, then. We’ll get us some coffee.”

The man got up and walked through the door, following Cam. Both dogs stared at him, and he stopped and put out both hands, palms down, in their direction. Frick came over first and sniffed cautiously, then Frack. They seemed very interested in the scent of his jacket. Mitchell sank down into a squat and deliberately bared the back of his neck to Frack, who sniffed again for a good fifteen seconds, established his dominance, and then walked away. Frick came closer and did the same thing, running her nose over the back of his head and hair before she, too, walked away and sat down next to Frack in a corner of the room. Cam could see that they were both watching Mitchell, but there was no longer any tension in their pose. The mountain man had, for the moment anyway, completely disarmed them.

Cam got the makings for coffee going and invited Mitchell to take a seat at the table in the single room, which doubled as a living room and eating area. Mitchell took off his hat and coat and put them on the floor. He was whip-thin and his gray-white hair was shiny with oil and pulled into a tight ponytail. His clothes smelled of wood smoke, but they were clean. Cam got out two mugs and sat down at the table. The gun in his belt pinched his belly, but he ignored it. He rubbed his own growing beard, wondering if it would ever get as expansive as Mitchell’s. It was certainly going to be as gray.

“I’m a lieutenant in the Manceford County Sheriff’s Office,” he said, trying not to stare at those ball bearing-like eyes. Mitchell nodded. His hands were down on the table and bore signs of the outdoors.

“I need to know what a cat dancer is,” Cam said.

Mitchell regarded him for a moment. “Why you askin’ me?” he said.

“A man told me I should ask you,” Cam replied. “A man called James Marlor. You know him?”

Cam saw no flicker of recognition in Mitchell’s eyes at the mention of Marlor’s name. “Nope,” Mitchell said calmly.

“Well, he’s dead,” Cam said. “Killed himself. Lost his wife and daughter in a holdup that went bad back in Manceford County.”

Mitchell blinked, looked away for an instant, but didn’t say anything.

“Before he killed himself, he caught up with the two holdup men who had killed his family. Caught up with them, took them prisoner, and then put them in a homemade electric chair and fried them.”

Mitchell’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “Sounds right,” he said.

“Well, officially, we cops take a dim view of citizens doing that kind of shit.”

“Officially,” Mitchell said.

“Yeah,” Cam agreed.

“What’s that all got to do with me?” Mitchell asked.

Cam hesitated. He didn’t know this man, or what his relationship had been to James Marlor, if any. Or to rogue cops who were not from Manceford County. The coffee smelled ready. He got up and poured them both a cup. He decided to keep the Bellamy bombing out of it. “I caught up with Marlor. Talked to him before he died.”

“You mean before he killed hisself,” Mitchell interjected.

“Right. Just before he did that. There are certain aspects of the case we couldn’t figure out. He cleared up some of them, but he then suggested I come out here and ask you about cat dancers. He named you specifically. Made no sense to me, but here I am.”

“You watch him do it?” Mitchell asked. He was holding his coffee mug close under his chin. When he sipped the coffee, Cam saw that his teeth were in terrible shape, yellow and even black in some places. He looked right at Cam, who couldn’t help but stare. Those silvery white eyes were strangely compelling.

Cam hesitated, then told Mitchell what had happened.

“You a cop,” Mitchell said. “Ain’t you supposed to stop that kind of thing?”

Cam looked away. “I didn’t,” he said slowly, “because I sympathized with the man. The alternative was for him to go to jail, maybe even end up on death row.”

“For doin’ what was right,” Mitchell said.

“Revenge killing isn’t right,” Cam said. “That’s what the law’s for.”

Mitchell made a rude noise. “Law’s for goddamned lawyers,” he said. He pushed back his chair, finished his coffee. He was clearly preparing to get up and leave. “I don’t know nothin’ about no cat dancin’.”

Cam had the feeling that Mitchell knew he’d been holding back. But he couldn’t overcome years of police training. When you did an interview, you told the person as little as possible. That way, whatever you were told should not, in theory, be tainted by hints of whatever it was you were investigating.

“All right,” Cam said. “I appreciate your coming by. I didn’t see a vehicle out there. You need a ride back somewhere?”

“Walked in,” Mitchell said, getting his hat and coat off the floor. “Walk back out, I reckon.”

“And you’ve never met James Marlor?”

“Don’t b’lieve so. But I take lotsa folks into the backwoods. Could be he was one of them, but I don’t recall that name.”

“If I need to talk to you again, what’s the quickest way I can find you?”

“Carter’s store, up to Cherokee,” he said, putting on his hat. “But you’n me? Don’t b’lieve we got anythin’ much to talk about, mister.”

“We might,” Cam said, for want of anything better to say.

“Real talk’s gotta go both ways,” Mitchell said. “Strangers come around these here parts, asking a buncha questions? Most folks ain’t gonna know nothing a-tall.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Cam said nonchalantly. “Appreciate your coming by.”

Mitchell nodded at him, went out the front door, and closed it behind him. Neither dog seemed to pay much attention one way or another.

Cam got up and poured himself another mug of coffee. Okay, he thought, that was a waste of time. The man had said he didn’t know Marlor or anything about these so-called cat dancers, and Cam had no reason to doubt him. He decided to ask around some more, starting with the local cops.

Half an hour later, he left the cabin with the dogs and walked over to his truck. There had been a heavy frost the night before and all the windows were solid white. He popped the dogs into the backseat and was climbing into the driver’s seat when he saw something on the hood. He got back out.

The hood was covered with a substantial layer of white, but right in the middle there was what looked like a paw print. It was a large paw print, complete with identifiable pads and claw marks, eight inches across, maybe a little bigger than that. Cam studied it carefully and then looked around to see if there were any other prints on the ground, but all he could see were his own dogs’ prints, which were much smaller than what was on the hood. He examined the big print again. It didn’t make sense, just one print. He circled his truck this time, scanning the ground. Nothing except his own footprints and those of the dogs. But that thing was huge, and it definitely looked like a cat’s print. He’d seen bear prints before, and this was different.

He walked back over to the cabin and searched the ground around the small building for Mitchell’s boot prints, but there were none. Just his own and the scattering of the two dogs’ prints from where they’d come out of the cabin and done their usual morning romp, Frack insulting trees and Frick checking out the scents left over from the night. But there was absolutely no sign of where Mitchell had walked in or out, either. He looked up into the surrounding hills, where birches, pines, and a host of bare-branch hardwoods stood frosty sentinel duty on the slopes. A crow lifted off from a distant tree and started raising a racket. How had he managed that, Cam wondered. Walking in and out without leaving a trace?

Then he thought about the paw print. Maybe this was Mitchell’s way of telling him something about cat dancers after all. He shivered in the cold mountain air.