"But you don't know why."
"Not yet," Grand admitted. "But animals do things for a reason. If I were you I'd have Officer Lyon concentrate his search on caves, sinkholes, or drains in that direction."
"I'll do that," Gearhart said. "Is there anything else?"
"There is," Grand said.
Gearhart waited.
"You musn't hurt these animals. Call the Fish and Game people," Grand said. "Get them involved."
"They've been notified."
"No," Grand said. "You have to tell them what we have here. Tell them we've got to take these animals alive."
Gearhart pulled the radio from his belt. "Professor, my only interest is keeping people alive."
"I understand that," Grand said, "but with a little planning we can accomplish both."
Gearhart said nothing. "The pilot will evac you both. Can you make it up the mountainside?"
"Yes," Grand said. "But first I want your word that you'll work with me on this."
"If there's time."
"There is," Grand insisted. "If the saber-tooths are anything like modern cats, they'll find a new den and then they'll probably be finished moving for the night."
"Probably isn't good enough," Gearhart said.
"Even if they keep moving we'll have until tomorrow at sunset before they hunt again. And as long as we don't do anything to antagonize them, they may not kill anyone."
"Why?" Gearhart asked.
"Because there were only about six or seven victims in the blockhouse," Grand said. "It's possible the cats took the bodies from the campsite elsewhere."
"To eat later."
Grand said nothing.
"And you want me to save them," Gearhart said. "Whatever these animals are, this stops tonight."
Gearhart turned to go; Grand got up and stepped in front of him.
"Sheriff, please. Don't rush into this. It's not just for the sake of the animals but for the safety of your people. These cats have been moving with precision and intelligence. I told Lyon and I'm telling you. They use decoys and feints and they can jump farther than any creature alive today. Wherever they stop for the night it will be in a place they can protect."
"Maybe they can protect it from clubs and stone arrowheads, but I plan to go in with real firepower," Gearhart said. The sheriff stepped around him. "But thanks for the warning."
Gearhart turned and walked toward the hill, simultaneously radioing Lyon instructions about patrolling the southeastern section of the mountains.
Hannah watched him go. "I've said it before and I'm sure I'll be saying it again. He's a licensed bully."
Grand said nothing. He was thinking.
The medics were still waiting by the hillside. Gearhart sent the two male medics back to collect their lights and heater. Then the sheriff helped Mrs. May up the slope to the chopper.
Hannah tried to stand as the medics approached but her left leg buckled. Grand caught her and put her arm around his shoulder.
"Thanks," she said.
"Are you sure you can make it?" one of the medics asked.
"I'm sure. It's just exhaustion. I'll be okay after a little rest." She looked at Grand. "You should get some too. It'll be at least a few hours before he can find the animals and put a SWAT team into the field."
Grand nodded. Though his tired mind was already tearing desperately through options, Hannah was right. He needed rest.
He also needed to make a call. He needed to make that before he did anything else.
Chapter Fifty-Two
Gearhart's radio beeped as the sheriff watched the chopper take off. He switched it on. "Gearhart-"
"Sheriff, I think I've got one of them." Special Officer Lyon told him.
"Where?"
"Where the Santa Ynez River and Agua Caliente Canyon meet," Lyon said. "There's a drain with a sinkhole about a hundred feet away. It looks like what Grand said-big sonofabitch."
"Do you have a clear shot?"
"Not really-there's a lot of tree cover."
"Where's the second one?"
"I don't see it yet," Lyon said.
"I want to get them both, now," Gearhart said. "Is there some way you can keep either of them from going into the sinkhole?"
"I can try firing on either side," Lyon said, "keep it out in the open. Or I can go down-"
"No," Gearhart barked. "Keep your distance. Take them out if you can-I'm going to get a highway patrol chopper to take me over. I'll meet you there with a team."
There was no answer.
"Lyon, do you read me?"
"Yes, sir," Lyon said.
"I'll get back to you," the sheriff said and signed off.
Gearhart immediately radioed his nighttime communications officer and asked him to patch through a call to Assistant Commissioner Lauer at home. Lauer was head of the highway patrol's field operations, which oversaw the Office of Air Operations. When Gearhart needed an additional fixed-wing plane or helicopter fast, that was the man he went to. The California Highway Patrol had larger, longer-range choppers than the sheriff's own hill-and-beach sweepers. That was what he wanted now.
Gearhart explained that they had their "animal killer" in sight and needed to airlift personnel to the site. He asked Lauer to have the chopper pick up his sharpshooters at the sheriff's office, then collect him and head on to Lyon's position. Since there was a CHP pilot on duty at all times, Lauer told Gearhart that he'd have the helicopter at the office parking lot in under ten minutes and at the sheriff's position five minutes after that.
Gearhart thanked him.
The sheriff briefed Lyon, who said that he thought he saw the second cat in the conduit. There was a clearing between the pipe opening and the sinkhole. With a little luck, he felt he could pick at least one of them off as it passed through, then hold the other one.
"There may not be anything left for you to do when you get here except to mop up," Lyon told him.
"I'll settle for that as long as you're careful," Gearhart told him. "This isn't a freakin' movie set-there are no safety rigs."
Lyon promised he would be very careful.
Gearhart clicked off then made one more call. It was to Thomas Gomez. The forensics scientist was en route from the beach to the campsite. The sheriff ordered the lab team to divert from there to the blockhouse. He wanted them to positively ID the remains at the site. Gomez complained that he and his team were exhausted but said they'd be right up.
Gearhart put the radio back in its loop. He made a fist and shook it tightly at his side. This wasn't going to get away from him. He had good people in the field and on the way. And though he was furious that these killings had transpired in his community, on his watch, he was nearly at the end of this ordeal. He would display the dead carcasses of the animals and the people who counted on him would understand that while they probably couldn't have prevented this, it could have been far, far worse.
All Gearhart had to do now, he hoped, was the thing he hated most.
To wait.
Chapter Fifty-Three
His leathery features creased with frustration, Frank Lyon looked out at the canopy two hundred feet below. When he was still working as a movie stunt actor, absolutely nothing daunted him. He raced chariots, drove motorcycles off cliffs, and once parachuted from a plane onto a hot-air balloon. If he hadn't busted his leg while he was skiing, the fifty-one-year-old would still be stunting instead of training new talent-and working as a Special Ops officer to get his jollies.