The Cat Dancers

69

A month later, Cam sat out on the deck behind his house with a Scotch in one hand and Frick’s fuzzy head in the other. Frack lay on the deck, watching as usual. Bobby Lee Baggett sat across from him, also enjoying a sunset libation.

“So I’m still fired,” Cam said.

“Well, actually, you’ve been early-retired. Sounds like fired, but different.”

Cam thought the Sheriff was still a little gray around the gills and that he’d lost pounds he couldn’t afford to lose. From time to time Bobby Lee would unconsciously put his left hand on his chest over the wound site. Cam knew the feeling.

“Don’t remember signing the papers,” Cam said, massaging his own bandaged arm.

“Memory is the second thing to go, especially when you get retired.”

“What’s the first?”

“I forget,” Bobby Lee said. It was such a lame old joke they both chuckled.

“What are the feds up to these days?” Cam asked.

“They have identified some ‘persons of interest,’” Bobby Lee said.

“That mean what it usually does?”

“Yep. They know who the bad guys are, but can’t prove shit. Yet. There’s an interesting wrinkle, though, if you can believe it.”

“Try me.”

“They want to offer that Indian computer wizard immunity if she’ll help them tag the federal members of that cat dancer thing.”

“She had to have been the one who set that bomb at Annie Bellamy’s house,” Cam pointed out. “Immunity from a murder charge?”

“I think they’re going to pretend they don’t know that,” Bobby Lee said. “Offer her immunity for being a part of the death squad. Get what they can, then open the murder charge.”

“Get her in custody and give me five minutes with her,” Cam said.

“Now, now, those aren’t the words of a retiree.”

“Have they found her?”

“That’s the problem. They seem to think you might be able to help them out with that.”

“Me?”

“She was the one who sent you the GPS points, right?”

“That was an entirely one-way channel, boss,” Cam said. “My chances of finding her on the Internet are precisely two.”

“One of their computer wienies is going to be in touch. You can at least make helpful noises.”

Cam reflected on that and sipped some scotch. His doctors had told him not to drink while on the final course of antibiotics. He had invoked his constitutional rights against cruel and unusual punishment, although he kept it well within bounds. Pretty much.

“I’m going to the County Sheriffs’ annual convention in Raleigh next week,” the sheriff said. “Gonna have me some ‘offline conversations on matters of mutual collective interest.’”

“Share some technical parameters?” Cam asked.

“Those too. What do you hear from your ranger friend?”

Cam tried to flex his left arm. It didn’t flex worth a damn. There was too much meat gone from vital places. Mostly he walked around like Napoleon, with his left hand shoved inside his shirt. “Unfortunately, not much,” he said.

“Why-’cause you shot those cats?”

“No, because I dragged her into something that turned nasty and dangerous. She was just supposed to testify, and instead… well, you know. And then when I declined to testify, I think she began to wonder about me and all my works.”

The sheriff nodded.

Cam looked over at him. “I have to hold to that,” he said. “Until you and the feds can tell me they have them all in custody, Mary Ellen won’t be safe.”

“Did you ever explain that to her?”

Cam shook his head. “I wanted to go up there again,” he said. “Have a talk. But every cop and park ranger in Carrigan County told me never to come back up there. They think pretty highly of that lady, and I was the guy damn near got her killed.”

“Mmm-mm.”

Cam looked over at him. “What’s that mean?”

“It means that it was those cat dancers, whoever the hell they are, they damn near got her killed.” He paused for a moment. “Now that you’re retired, you’re just going to sit back and forget this whole mess, right?”

Cam had to think about how to answer that. “I think I really would like that five minutes alone with Jay-Kay Bawa,” he said.

“Feds would hate that.”

“I have money now, Sheriff,” Cam said. “And more coming. Lots more, apparently. I think that can buy me a certain degree of insurance, of the political variety. Besides, what better thing to do with all that money than to nail the bitch who killed Annie?”

“And what exactly would you do if you found her?”

“That is the question, isn’t it,” Cam said, thoughtfully. “Maybe knock together another electric chair?” Frick got up and moved away. Frack moseyed over for some head rubbing.

“Sounds good to me,” the sheriff said, “as long as we both understand you’re just running your mouth.” He stretched his legs and rubbed his chest one more time before he got up. “Oh, by the way, there was a letter for you, came in care of the office. I called the sender, told her you had left the force. She asked why, and I… well, I kind of filled her in on some things. She asked me to return the letter.” He unfolded an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Cam. “Here’s the one she sent in its place. I’ll leave you to it. Remember who your friends are, and what’s important in life.”

Cam took the letter but didn’t look at it. “You’re not disappointed in me, then?”

“Absolutely not,” the sheriff said emphatically. “But you need to move on. We’ll get ’em. Ain’t like we don’t know a thing or two.”

“Mess with the best’?”

The sheriff grinned, his teeth white in the night, not unlike a big cat’s. “That’s it,” he said.

Cam took the letter into the kitchen once the sheriff had gone. He sat down at the kitchen table, massaged his arm, and read what Mary Ellen had written. Then he smiled. Jay-Kay and the cat dancers might have to wait awhile after all.

But not forever.