Yet as sprawling as Hannah's net tended to be-or because of that-she had managed to be right about one thing, though. Gearhart knew more than he was telling about this case. While he wasn't willing to buy the idea of a saber-toothed tiger, he wasn't dismissing the notion that some nutcase was murdering people in the fashion of a saber-toothed tiger. And that the killer was planting evidence to fool wanna-believers like Hannah and Grand. One of Thomas Gomez's lab boys had made that suggestion after examining the backpack they found in the creek sinkhole. The chemist had just taken his son to see the saber-tooth fossil displays at the George C. Page Museum in Los Angeles. The boy had posed for a photograph with his head in the tiger's mouth; the depth and spacing of the gashes reminded the chemist of that mouth, so he had E-mailed the museum for exact measurements.
They fit.
The fur specimens the lab boys found in the fish truck supported the notion that someone was trying to emulate a saber-tooth, though Grand was correct about that. They hadn't radiocarbon-dated the sample or tested to see whether it came from a living creature. According to the experts at Page, there weren't any existing examples of saber-toothed tiger hair. The fact that Gomez and his team hadn't found a match meant that the sample in the truck probably came from some obscure animal like a platypus or wombat. As soon as the technicians got a spare minute they'd nail that down for sure.
Gearhart kept people like Hannah Hughes at a safe distance because he knew from his experiences in LA that all he had to tell her was that there might be a lunatic pretending to be a saber-toothed tiger. He could see the headlines now: COPY-CAT KILLER! Gearhart could live with that, but only after they'd found the perpetrator and any accomplices. He didn't need his investigators pressured by front-page yipping and editorial scare-mongering. That was how mistakes and wrongful arrests happened. There were thirty experienced police and search personnel in the field. They were just about finished searching the mountains and would be moving into the caves soon. They'd get whoever was doing this.
Get him and make him extinct.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Grand was accustomed to driving the hills and was having no trouble keeping up with the Wall. Not that there were many places the photographer or Gearhart could lose them, especially with his flashing lights bouncing off the slopes. In about a quarter of a mile, the Divide Peak RV Route would end and intercept a very short spur of East Camino Cielo. From there, they could only head west in the direction of the Painted Cave or east toward Pendola Road. Pendola Road ran toward the northwest and was the location of four campsites: Juncal, Mid-Santa Ynez, P-Bar Flats, and Mono.
"What makes you think Gearhart will let us stay?" Grand asked Hannah as they neared the end of the Divide Peak Route.
"He won't," Hannah said. "But he can't chase us away without a reason and, with luck, it'll take him at least a minute or two to get one."
The Wall reached East Camino Cielo and turned east.
"They're headed toward campgrounds," Grand said.
Hannah shook her head. "This is amazing."
"What is?"
"All of this," she said. "Discovery, a story unfolding, piecing things together, danger."
"Going nose-to-nose with Gearhart on his turf?"
"Busted," Hannah said with a guilty grin. "Yeah, that too."
"I guess it's different being part of the news instead of just covering it," Grand said.
"Totally."
"But I can't get it out of my head that people are dying out here. It puts a different imperative on the process."
"That's what I mean," Hannah said. "What we do can make a difference. It's the main reason I got into this business."
They started up Pendola Road and immediately turned off at the Juncal campsite. The site was located in the Santa Ynez river drainage. As Grand pulled up he saw seven campers parked well apart on the thickly treed grounds. There were four motor homes, two pop-up campers, and a large fifth-wheel trailer. The lights were on in some of the RVs, off in others. High, grassy hills rose beyond the site, blocking most of the moonlight.
Gearhart and the Wall were moving toward the campers. An officer from the Pendola Ranger Station was already there; Grand recognized the green Chevy truck. A flashlight was moving toward Gearhart. Grand pulled up near the fifth-wheel trailer, a thirty-six-foot Gulf Stream Conquest. He and Hannah got out. Hannah hurried after Gearhart.
"Sheriff," said the short, middle-aged, clean-cut ranger in a brown uniform.
"What've we got?" Gearhart asked.
"Blood," replied the ranger nonchalantly. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Looks like party night in 'Nam over there."
The men started walking into the heart of the camp. "How many victims?" Gearhart asked.
"So far I haven't found a one," the ranger said, "But I haven't gone into all the campers yet."
"You said there were guns."
"Two," the ranger replied. "They were different locations. Each one got off a round, but that was-"
"Help!"
The cry was small, thin, and high.
Everyone stopped talking, stopped moving, and listened.
"Daddy?"
The voice was coming from inside the Gulf Stream Conquest. Grand had stayed by his SUV and was the one nearest the trailer. The door was only ten feet away. He ran toward it.
"Grand, wait!" Gearhart shouted.
Grand did not intend to wait. Whoever was inside might be hurt. Seconds could matter.
The door was located in the front of the trailer. There was a large pool of blood to the left of it, large, ugly scratches on the wall beside it. Grand opened the door with the sleeve of his jacket so he wouldn't smudge any fingerprints. He stepped back and listened.
"Grand, dammit!" Gearhart shouted.
Grand didn't hear anything from inside the trailer. He went up the stairs and looked in.
The lights were on and the camper was relatively neat. There was part of a stuffed animal on the floor and uneaten dinner on the dinette. The drapes of the bay window were drawn. He moved down the center of the RV toward a side aisle. There was another room in back.
"Hello!" Grand said as he moved into the master bedroom. He stopped and looked under the queen-size bed. "Is anyone in there?"
"I'm here," said the small voice.
It came from a bath suite in the back. Grand hurried over. The door was shut. He didn't know if it was locked, but he didn't want to open it. Not if the girl was hiding from something. He knocked.
"Are you in there?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Are you okay?"
"Uh-uh."
"May I come in?"
"Where's my dad and mom?"
"We're looking for them," Grand said softly. "But we found you. My name is Jim. Could we talk just a little?"
"It was here," said the voice.
"What was?"
"The lion."
Grand felt his bowels tighten.
Gearhart arrived.
"Where was the lion?" Grand asked.
"It was outside and then it was on the roof."
"Well, it's gone now. Listen," Grand said carefully, "I've told you my name. It's Jim. Remember?"
"Yes."
"What's your name?"
"Eugenie."
"Eugenie? That's a very pretty name."
"And my rabbit's name is Blankie. But he lost his head when I was running."
"He did? Well guess what, Eugenie."
"What?"
"Blankie's head is out here. And if you open the door, there's this very nice man, Sheriff Gearhart, who will be happy to put Blankie's head back on his body."