But Gearhart's hope was blasted when the highway-patrol pilot reported seeing wreckage among the trees up ahead. Gearhart jumped from his seat. He squeezed into the cockpit between the pilot and copilot and looked out as the chopper approached the site. They had cleared a five-hundred-foot hill and dropped to two hundred feet.
The scene was horrific. Brightly lit by the jiggling white searchlight, Gearhart saw that many of the trees had been stripped of leaves. As they neared he could see the helicopter nestled among them. Worse than the horribly twisted rotor was the sight of the chopper itself. Lying on its side, it reminded Gearhart of a beached whale-helpless despite its formidable size and power.
But the helicopter wasn't badly damaged, and Gearhart still hoped that Lyon and Russo might be alive. The pilot dropped lower. Only then, as the remaining leaves parted, could they see inside the cockpit.
"Oh, shit," murmured the pilot. "Sheriff-"
"Go lower!" he yelled.
The pilot obliged.
The sight was shocking, even to Gearhart. Lyon's body was lying across that of Russo. They were savagely mangled and bloody beyond imagining. Though the windshield was shattered, the dismemberment hadn't happened in the crash. Gearhart had seen rotor wounds and crash injuries. These two looked as though they'd been pushed through a paper shredder.
"Put me through to the California Army National Guard," Gearhart said. "The Fortieth Division Support Command in LA, General Brewer."
The pilot obliged.
While he waited, Gearhart looked down at the wreckage. He didn't know what had brought the chopper down; that would be for the investigating engineers to figure out. But he knew what had mangled the passengers. Except for the presence of the bodies, the blood distribution was the same as in the fish truck they'd found on the beach. The cats had probably gone in after the chopper went down and finished the two off.
Gearhart looked out at the sinkhole. He wondered if the animals were there watching, waiting for them to make a move.
They wouldn't have to wait long, Gearhart vowed.
Not long at all.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Except for the thick roar of the waves behind Grand, the living room was silent. Hannah took a slow sip of tea, then walked toward a white leather sofa in the center of the room. She sat down in the middle and huddled around the mug. She looked past Grand at the sea.
"You know, we could be wrong about this," she said. "There may be another interpretation of that painting."
"I don't think so," Grand said.
"Why not?"
He picked up his coffee and walked toward her. "Since this started I've been bothered by the amount of carnage we've seen, especially at the campsite. Two cats could have been responsible for killing all of those people and carrying them away, but this-"
"Makes a lot more sense."
Grand stopped beside the sofa and nodded. "The cats we saw are probably point cats watching the pride's flank."
"Like an army."
"Yes. There are probably one or two more serving as scouts. They're going to be tough to bring down alive or dead," Grand went on. "The question is, where are they going? What were they doing eleven thousand years ago when they were incapacitated? Seasonal homes, hunting grounds-we have no idea what their migratory habits were back then, assuming they had any."
"I just had a thought," Hannah said. "One you may not like."
"What?"
"We better let Gearhart know about the other cats," she said. "Even if we convince him to use tranquilizers, he'll still need enough darts and guns to deal with a dozen or more animals."
"Good point," Grand said. "I'll make the call."
"You know, this is incredible, Jim. Just incredible."
"I know."
"Thanks for sharing it with me."
He smiled and took a swallow of coffee as he walked toward the bedroom phone. That was a sweet, heartfelt thing to say. It made him feel good. A flower in the midst of carnage and chaos.
Grand left a message with Deputy Young in the sheriff's office communications center. The scientist explained that he had no evidence of a larger pride, only suspicions, but that care should be taken before pursuing the saber-tooths into any caves, tunnels, or drains. Grand added that the heart of the pride might have been using the blockhouse for a den, which would explain the remains Senior Officer Lyon had found. Grand told them it would be okay to phone if they had any questions. That was the only way he could keep on top of what they were doing.
Grand hung up and returned to the living room. Hannah had curled up on her side on the sofa.
"What did they say?" she asked sleepily. Exhaustion had caught up to her. He knew the feeling.
Grand walked over to the desk. "The sheriff is up in the mountains and they'll forward the information. I told them to call if they needed anything." He took a sip of coffee.
"You better keep the phone with you," she said. "I'm bad at middle-of-the-night calls. I sound like I have socks in my mouth."
Grand still had the coffee in his mouth. He held it there, then swallowed slowly. "I told them to call me at home."
"That was dumb," the young woman mumbled. "Call back and tell them you're here. You can have the bed. I'm comfortable where I am." Hannah snuggled in a little deeper. Her voice continued to fade. "I should take a shower. All that running, the rainwater… but I don't want to get up."
"Don't," Grand said.
"Okay. Good night, Jim."
"Good night, Hannah."
"Thanks again for everything."
"You're welcome," he said.
Hannah passed out.
Grand continued to look at her. He felt awkward standing there, but he didn't turn away.
It was strange. Grand had held both of Hannah's hands, carried her, felt her neck and limbs for broken bones. She had rested against his chest back at the foot of the mountain where they fought the cats. Yet this was more intimate than any contact they'd had.
He liked it.
Grand didn't bother to call the sheriff's office again. He called his home phone and programmed it to forward calls to this number. Then he phoned Walker and left a message asking him to give Fluffy a very early once-around-the-block in the morning. Walker was up at dawn, and Fluffy would be pretty unhappy by then. Finally, Grand lay down on the bed. He shut off the light.
The oversized pillow was rich with Hannah's scent, mostly perfume or hairspray or whatever it was women put on. Rebecca had never bothered with any of that. She smelled of sea breeze and Rebecca.
But this was nice. Grand realized, suddenly, that he was smiling. For the first time in months he felt a sense of contentment.
Sleep came easily, which he happily embraced even as thoughts of ice and fangs played on the fringes of his mind.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Hannah was already showered, dressed, and working at her laptop when Grand walked into the living room. He winced as he glanced through the wide-open glass sliders at the white beach. The sands were blinding. He turned away and looked around the room for a clock. He saw one on the VCR. It was seven-forty. Hannah wasn't the only one exhaustion had caught up to. He hadn't slept this late in years.
"Good morning," Hannah said.
"Good morning," he said groggily.
Grand walked toward Hannah. The young woman was dressed in a sky blue blouse and faded jeans. The long sleeves of the blouse were rolled back. There were scratches and bruises on her forearms, cheek, and neck. Despite the wounds, she looked fresh. It was her attitude, he decided.
"There's coffee in the kitchen. I brewed it this time."
"Smells good," Grand said. He went in and poured himself some. "Do you want anything?"