He turned and saw the thing a hundred yards away, sniffing at the seat of his bike. He owned the largest, loudest motorcycle in the club. His brothers joked about it, asking if Triple A would send a crane to help him pick it up if it got knocked over in the parking lot. But the thing standing next to it, the tiger, was bigger than the bike.
The screen door slammed shut behind him with a loud bang. The animal raised its massive head and looked at him, its eyes full of intelligence and intention. It opened its mouth and growled. Since the club had discovered Tigertown, seeing big cats was as common for Orrin as spying cows in fields along the highway. But, unlike a cow, he’d never seen a tiger with nothing in between him and it but distance. And that’s all that separated them now: a frighteningly short distance. No cage, no moat. Just open space.
He grasped at the door, desperate to rejoin a dead man and get back inside. Behind him, he heard the footfalls of a perfect predator making short work of maybe twenty-five yards. Fifteen. Five. The screen swung open, and Orrin leaped into the house, flinging the solid front door shut behind him. It slammed as he heard the beast land on the porch, yowling its frustration. He threw his back against the wood and twisted the deadbolt, squinting his eyes shut, waiting for the feeling of the door and six hundred pounds of hungry beast falling on top of him. Instead, he heard the creature pacing back and forth on the boards outside. It roared. The sound scared Orrin worse than the report of Raymond’s forty-five, worse than anything he’d ever heard.
He jerked his pistol out of its holster, aiming it at the door with a quivering hand. For the first time in his life, it felt perfectly impotent in his grip. He hadn’t had a chance to draw it when Raymond had pulled his piece from between the sofa cushions.
Worthless then.
And the tiger between him and his bike was waiting on the other side of a door without a window. He couldn’t see it to even try to get a shot off.
Worthless now.
He stepped away from the door, crouched low, and crept to the window to get a look out onto the deck. Though he couldn’t see the tiger, he could hear it walking away from him on the creaky boards. He imagined it was searching for another way in. It roared again, and Orrin’s pulse thrummed in his ears both faster and louder.
He had no idea if his piece even packed the kind of punch to kill a tiger. The thought of such a thing had never even occurred to him; his handgun was made for killing men. To him, tigers were the sort of animal that seemed untouchable. Like some kind of creature from myth that existed in the liminal spaces between light and dark and only stepped out to take what they wanted. Of course he knew they weren’t mythical creatures. He’d seen them often enough right here in Tigertown.
Orrin had toured the “zoo” with the rest of the Dead Soldiers a couple of times. The cages were made of chicken wire stretched around scrap wood from pallets and who knew what else. He assumed, like everyone else, that the cages, however ramshackle they appeared, were sturdy and secure. He’d thought, Raymond and Val wouldn’t live here if they weren’t. Right? But then, he knew people who did stupid, self-destructive shit all the time. They rode in the rain, they shot smack, they borrowed money from the Dead Soldiers, and they visited places like Tigertown off of Route 30, halfway to Vulcan Hot Springs. Of course one of the cats had broken free; it was an inevitability. And it was his bad luck that he happened to be here when it happened. Not luck. Bunker. Bunker had sent him instead of coming himself because he wanted to send Raymond a message. I don’t come when you call, like a dog.
The sound of the big cat’s steps on the porch grew louder, and for a brief moment, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of an orange-and-black blur in the window. He aimed, and it was gone. He thought maybe if he went upstairs, he could lean out and try to get it from above, taking his shots from a safe position. He reckoned, whether or not his piece was capable of killing one, a mag full of nine mil rounds would discourage it at least—but only if he could hit it. His hand was shaking so badly he was uncertain he could even hit the door right in front of him. His gaze returned to Raymond’s gun resting in the mess of glass on the carpet. It held fewer rounds, but packed a bigger punch. If he could kill the thing with five bullets, then he could put the piece back where he found it, and maybe it’d look like Raymond had greased himself in despair over having to off one of his precious cats. He slipped his own pistol back into its holster and reached through the chrome table frame to pick up the Taurus revolver. It felt better, heavier, in his hand. He tightened his grip and walked out of the front room.
But before that.
TUESDAY
The Fort Basin County Sheriff parked her truck in the driveway a few yards from the front door and killed the engine. She sat for a moment, listening, waiting for the proprietor to come out like he always did when someone first arrived at Tigertown, waving like an idiot and welcoming them to “The best safari this far from Darkest Africa!” Pat had brought her kids here once and instantly regretted it when she saw the condition of the cages holding the animals. They were cramped and ramshackle and, worst of all, filthy. She led her boys through the tour, pretending everything was all right, but feeling fearful and increasingly angry at the people who kept the animals in these conditions. Before that, the kids had been so excited to see tigers they’d practically jumped out of the car and run up ahead as she eased up the driveway, afraid of hitting another visitor or wrecking the already struggling suspension on the deep frost heaves and ruts in the road. Kyle and Patrick had seen big cats before at the Salt Lake City Zoo, but they’d heard stories from their friends about this place. About how close you could get. About how many tigers there were. They were as excited as she’d ever seen them, and couldn’t turn around without losing the little credibility she worked to establish with young boys embarrassed to have a cop for a mom. They were good kids, though, and were as disappointed and disgusted at the state of the place as she was.
Now, she held the papers in her hand and felt a tinge of satisfaction at the idea that she was starting something that might lead to better lives for the animals behind the house. She pushed open the truck door. It creaked loudly on rusting hinges and she winced. While the city PD an hour up the highway was getting all sorts of secondhand military equipment from the Feds, the County still had her rolling around in an old Bronco with a hundred and fifty thousand miles and a rebuilt engine. She left the door hanging open and crunched through the gravel on the way to the front porch. Before she got to the steps, Raymond burst out the front door, tucking in his denim shirt and looking like he had just woken up. Pat checked her watch. A quarter to eleven.
Raymond nodded at her with his chin and spat on the porch. “What’re ya’ after, Officer?”
“That’s Sheriff Trudell, Mr Pawlaczuk. I’m here on official business.”