Altar of Eden (11 page)

Stella yelled to be heard above the scared cries and sobs of the children. “Spread the campfires in a circle around us! Stoke them high!”

“Why are we staying here?” one den mother asked. “The fire’s spreading. We’ll be trapped.”

Stella noted other eyes staring at them. Many of them hadn’t seen the big cat or how quickly the monster moved. If they tried to escape on foot, it would pick them off one at a time.

“The campsite is open space,” Stella shouted. “The wind is heading the other direction. And even if the fires circle us, we have access to water to soak ourselves. But just in case, we should start wetting down bandannas, be ready to cover noses and mouths against the smoke if the wind shifts.”

“She’s right,” her father said, nodding to her. “We’re safest if we stick here.”

He was covered in soot and sweat. He had been helping the men and older boys with setting up the protective ring of fires. Her mother was with some of the other women, keeping the younger children corralled together, trying to stave off panic.

“Someone’s coming!” a man yelled, pushing up to them but pointing back at the farm.

Stella and her father turned. Three figures stood on one of the boardwalks on the far side of the breeding ponds. Smoke wafted over them. The fire raged nearby.

Where had they come from?

A fourth man climbed over one of the border fences and joined the others.

“Are those Gar’s men?” her father asked.

“I don’t think so.”

Stella squinted. A gust of wind cleared the smoke for a second. Three of the men wore uniforms, had helmets. They all carried weapons. “Look like the military.”

They definitely weren’t Gar’s cronies.

In fact, she had seen neither hide nor hair of Garland Chase since the fire. After fleeing the burning house, he had hightailed it toward the radio shack near the edge of the farm. It sat on the highest ground, its roof bristling with antennas. Gar must have decided to hole up there, the coward likely barricading himself inside.

On the other side of the farm, the four men had gathered and now pounded across the elevated walkways. They headed straight toward the campsite. The closer they got, the more sure Stella grew about her initial assessment. The men wore combat uniforms and carried assault weapons. As they ran, they guarded both sides of the boardwalk as if expecting to be attacked.

Did they know about the giant cat?

In less than a minute, the four men came running up. Her father and the scoutmaster met them. The leader of the combat team stood a head taller than the others. He studied the camp with a calculating eye.

“Agent Jack Menard with the CBP,” the man introduced himself.

So he was with the Border Patrol. As her father gave a thumbnail version of their story, she noted a patch on his uniform. It bore the symbol of a rearing Pegasus with three lightning bolts and the encircling words:
Special Response Team.
They were the elite of the Patrol.

“We have a boat on the far side of the fires,” the man said. “Even if it could reach here, it’s too small for this many people. But a Coast Guard rescue unit is on its way with helicopters and boats. Once they’re here, we can begin ferrying everyone to safety. But it’ll take time. We’ll need everyone to stay calm.”

Her father lowered his voice. “You should know that there’s some sort of white tiger out there. One hell of a big monster.”

A nod. “We know. Didn’t you get the evacuation warning?”

Her father glanced sheepishly at her, then down.

“Doesn’t matter,” the man said, not bothering to scold.
Water under the bridge,
his expression seemed to say. He even clapped her father on the shoulder. “You’ve done a good job setting up a perimeter fire wall. If we stay alert and keep weapons ready, we’ll be okay.”

Her father’s back drew straighter. Stella studied the agent with new eyes, appreciating how he didn’t browbeat her father and avoided demoralizing him during such a tense time. Recriminations could come later. For now, the agent wanted everyone focused.

No wonder this man was a leader.

Agent Menard passed on a few orders to his men, then unclipped a radio from his belt. She hovered a step away, eavesdropping.

“We’ve reached the farm. But there are over sixty people here. Men, women, children. Have you heard from the other team?”

As he listened she noted his fingers tighten on the radio.

His voice cracked, bright with anger, thickening his Cajun accent. “She’s gone and done what?”

LORNA HEADED OVERLAND
through a section of bottomland forest. Two Border Patrol agents flanked her: Garcia and Childress. Ahead of her trotted Burt. The hound’s nose was buried in the marsh grasses. The dog ran with his tail high.

She carried her assembled tranquilizer gun stiffly in front of her. It was a .50-caliber Pneu-Dart rifle loaded with a clip of five 1.5cc darts containing etorphine hydrocloride, known as M99, a highly potent neuroleptanalgesic. A single drop could kill a man. Five milligrams was enough to drop a rhino. Still, once darted, the drug took time to send an animal into a catatonic state.

So she was happy to have Garcia and Childress at her back with their assault rifles.

The three of them had left the CBP’s Zodiac tied up on to the eastern bank of the channel. Minutes ago, they’d all heard the sporadic gunfire from the team on this side of the canal. Then nothing since. They’d kept watch on the forest through night-vision goggles, but there had been no sign of the other team.

Still, during that vigil, Lorna had spotted something of interest out in the swamp: a heat signature about fifty yards back into the bayou. The shape was indistinct. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked too large to be a raccoon. She watched it for a full minute. It didn’t move and seemed nested at the foot of a large cypress. Finally the silhouette rose and stretched its back, forming a characteristic feline arch, that seemingly boneless curve so typical of cats. It turned a few times, then settled back down.

Could it be the jaguar’s cub, the sibling to Bagheera back at ACRES?

It could explain why the big cat had turned so aggressive. The mother wasn’t only defending territory and food supply, but also her child. No wonder she attacked the Thibodeaux boat first. That team had been unlucky enough to pick this side of the channel, where the cub was hidden.

It all came down to the cub.

If they could capture it, get it back to the boat, they’d have the perfect bait for its mother, a way to lure it away from the assaulted team— that is, if the men were still alive. And if not, they’d still have a tool to control the jaguar.

And that’s just what she had argued with Scott Nester.

Control the cub, you control the mother.

It was worth the risk of a fast search. She had insisted on coming along, warning Jack’s second-in-command that she’d jump overboard and swim to shore if necessary. As they readied the Zodiac, Scott had tried to radio Jack for authorization. But there’d been no response, so Scott finally relented, just as concerned about his teammates’ fate.

Still, his instructions had been firm to Garcia and Childress. “There and back. If it runs off, you don’t pursue.” He had pointed at Lorna. “Drag her back by her hair if she gives you any trouble.”

So they moved swiftly through the forest. They aimed toward the large cypress. But there was no way to move without any noise. Within a few steps, Lorna watched the cub’s silhouette slip behind the bole of the tree, alerted to their presence.

Was it still there or had it run off?

Generally cubs tend to stick to their nests, even in the face of danger. She recalled a nature documentary in which an entire litter of lion cubs was killed by a cobra, simply because they feared leaving their den. With any luck, the cub was still there.

As Lorna hiked, she caught the barest whisker of a heat signature through her goggles. The cub was still behind the tree, but it looked ready to bolt. She dared not try tranquilizing it. The darts were too potent for something so small.

But she couldn’t let it get away.

“Burt . . .”

The hound stopped, one ear cocked back, listening, but he kept his nose fixed ahead. He didn’t need any goggles to pick out the cub. Lorna had to trust that the hound was typical of hunting dogs in the area, trained like most to hunt raccoons.

And there was only one sure way of catching a raccoon.

“Go tree him, boy,” she commanded.

Burt lunged ahead, running low, spearing through the grass. He angled to the side, circling out and around. He wasn’t about to let his prey escape into the deeper woods.

As Lorna had hoped, the cub stuck to its instincts. It didn’t want to leave the spot where its mother had left it, but it also recognized the threat in Burt. Reacting on pure feline instinct, the cub shot up the cypress.

Burt hit the tree, letting out a loud bawl, announcing his success.

They all took off at a run toward the treed cat.

Lorna hated to terrify the small creature, but she also recognized the necessity of its capture.

And quickly.

The dog’s barking was surely already drawing the big cat in their direction. Lorna reached the tree first. “Quiet, Burt.”

The hound bounded about the trunk, excited, tongue lolling, but he obeyed and stopped his bawling.

The cub was perched on a limb overhead. Barely newborn, it hadn’t been able to climb too high. Huge eyes, glassy with fear, stared down at them. It hissed a warning, its coat bristling out in all directions.

Lorna had brought along a thick red fire blanket, carried over one shoulder. She set down her rifle, unfurled the blanket, and tossed it like a net over the cub. The weight and the surprise rolled the cub off its perch. Tangled in the blanket, it fell, but Lorna caught it in her arms. It squirmed and fought inside the bundled blanket, but like its sibling it was malnourished. It didn’t have much fight.

She hugged the cub through the blanket, trying to stifle its panic with a calming pressure. From inside came a plaintive mewling. The sound tugged at her heart.

Poor thing.

“Ma’am, time to go,” Garcia said.

He and his partner held their rifles tight to their shoulders. They all strained to listen for any telltale sign of an angry mother barreling toward them. Instead, a different noise intruded: a heavy
thump-thumping.

They all turned to the north. Lorna winced as the bright lights flared in her goggles. It had to be the helicopter Jack had called down from Bay Lanaux. One-handed, she pushed the goggles to her forehead. Darkness enveloped her, and the brightness dissolved to a dot in the sky. The chopper was still a half mile off, but the noise grew louder with every heartbeat.

“Let’s go,” Garcia pressed.

Lorna reached her free arm and grabbed her rifle from the grass.

As she straightened, she found herself staring at a pair of large eyes deep in the forest, reflecting the meager light, glowing in the dark.

She froze.

A deep growl flowed from Burt.

Then in a blink, the eyes vanished.

She backed in a hurried stumble.

“What’s wrong?” Childress asked.

“Run!”

Lorna clambered from the Zodiac up into the boat. She was winded. Her heart pounded in her throat. Reaching the open deck, she gazed back toward shore.

Why hadn’t the big cat given chase?

Overhead, the helicopter hovered. Its rotors pounded down at them, shaking the leaves and branches of the tree line.

Though they had reached the boat with their precious cargo, she knew they were all far from safe. The tree line was only ten yards off. The cat could easily leap that distance from a dead standstill.

Garcia and Childress recognized this danger, too. As soon as their boots hit the deck, they spun with their rifles up and pointed toward the shore.

Burt hopped up from the Zodiac and sniffed at the blanket-wrapped parcel in Lorna’s arms.

Scott Nester joined them. He had to yell to be heard. “You found the kitten?”

“Cub,” Lorna corrected. “And its mother.”

Scott stared at the dark bank. Nothing moved. “Garcia? Do you see anything?”

“Nothing but friggin’ fireflies.” The man kept alert, but the taut tension in his shoulders loosened. “Maybe Dr. Polk only saw some reflection off the water. Childress and I didn’t see anything out there.”

“She’s out there,” Lorna insisted. It hadn’t been refracted starlight off water. Those glowing eyes still burned in her memory, bright with a cunning intelligence.

“If you’re right,” Scott said, “then she’ll stick close, knowing we have her cub. That should keep her away from the men out there.”

Lorna read the unspoken caveat in the man’s worried expression.

If any of them are still alive.

Lorna hiked the cub higher in her arms. It had settled, the warmth and darkness lulling it into submission. She stared out at the dark woods.

Why hadn’t the cat come after them? Lorna sensed it wasn’t the noise and blaze of the hovering helicopter that held her back. She’d had no fear of attacking the airboat and its pilot.

The cub squirmed, seeking a more comfortable spot. While this cub wasn’t as sickly as the one they’d recovered from the shipwrecked trawler, it was still in poor shape. Had the mother known that and given up on the cub? Was that why she hadn’t given chase?

Lorna refused to believe that. The mother had gone to great lengths to protect her child thus far. She would not give up so readily.

So then where was she? What was her plan?

Another five minutes passed. Still, there remained no sign of her. The helicopter made a sweeping pass, its searchlight spearing the dark forest below.

Scott retreated to the far side of the boat, talking and coordinating with the Coast Guard on his satellite phone. The rescue force would arrive on site in another ten minutes.

Burt curled on the deck, his nose tucked under his tail. The dog seemed little concerned—and that worried her. The wind blew out of the east. If the cat’s scent was in the air, Burt should still be wired, pacing the deck, whining.

“She’s gone,” Lorna mumbled.

Behind her, Scott’s voice grew agitated. She turned as he lowered his radio and hurried over to Lorna.

“Jack radioed in. The cat’s been spotted over at the farm. Why isn’t it here? I thought you said she’d stay by her cub.”

Lorna turned and stared toward the burning cabin, digesting the new information. The helicopter swept past, stirring hot smoke over the channel, yet careful not to fan the flames toward them. Still, fiery ash rained over the boat and sizzled into the water.

“I’m sending the chopper Jack’s way,” Scott said. “See if it can’t chase that monster away from the children.”

Despite the heat, Lorna went cold.
Children.
Slowly she sensed an inkling of the cat’s intent. She thrust out an arm.

“Give me the radio. I need to speak to Jack now!”

JACK INSPECTED THE
circle of fires. They completely surrounded the campsite. Randy kept in step beside him. They both carried their rifles. Jack had everyone retreat into the center of the camp’s tents, as far from the edge of the bayou as possible. Only those with weapons kept guard near the flames.

Still, they only had seven men.

Not enough to keep a perfect vigil on the forest.

With the fires blazing high, Jack’s night-vision goggles were useless. The surrounding old-growth forest remained a dark, impenetrable wall. The cat had been spotted briefly by one of Jack’s men. But it was gone before he could even shift his rifle into position.

“Fucking ghost” were the words used to describe it.

Randy spoke at his side. “She’s playing with us. Like a cat with a bunch of mice.”

Jack knew what his brother meant. The jaguar had proven to be a skilled hunter. She wouldn’t have allowed herself to be spotted so easily. It was as if she were testing them.

Something felt wrong about this.

His teeth ached with tension of it all.

“Over here!” a man shouted on the far side of the encampment. It was one of the scoutmasters. His rifle blasted.

Other men scrambled toward his position.

Some fired blindly.

Randy made a move to follow, but Jack grabbed his arm. “No!”

Maybe it was his years of hunting the bayou, or his two tours playing cat and mouse with insurgents in Iraq, but Jack recognized that they were being set up.

He scanned the forests to either side. Randy understood, mirroring his action, his rifle poised and ready at his shoulder. But there was too much ground to cover for just the two of them.

Jack spotted the danger too late.

On the far side of a tent to the left.

A boy had been carrying firewood—a camp chair broken into kindling—toward the stockpile near one edge of the tents. He had stopped, half turned toward the sound of the gunshots. Behind him, a large shape burst out of the forest. In one bound, the cat hurdled the fires and landed within their secured area.

The attack was so fast, the boy didn’t even have a chance to scream.

The cat grabbed him by the back of the shirt, spun off one paw, and leaped back over the fire and into the woods with the child.

Jack had his rifle up and pointed, but he had hesitated for a fraction of a heartbeart, afraid he’d hit the child, an instinctual reaction. And the wrong one. The boy was dead either way.

At his waist, his radio kicked in. “Jack! Come in!”

He would’ve ignored the call, but the voice was Lorna’s, and she sounded panicked. He snatched the radio and lifted it to his lips.

“What is it?” he barked, unable to hold back his frustration and anger.

“The cat! I think she’s going for the children.”

Jack let out a shuddering breath. “You’re too late. She already attacked and killed a boy.”

“Killed? No, Jack, that’s not what—”

From the forest, a sharp cry echoed out. Jack lowered the radio. It had to be the boy. His wails continued to echo out of the darkness, rising and falling in raw terror.

But at least he was still alive!

Relief fired through Jack, but also worry.

Why
was the boy still alive?

Jack remembered Randy’s description of the cat and the mouse, which suggested one grim answer.

Cats played with their food before killing it.

As Jack listened, the screaming went on and on.

LORNA HEARD THE
cries through the radio’s open channel. That was enough. She turned and shoved the radio at Scott. “Call the chopper back.”

The helicopter had begun to sweep toward the farm.

“What for?”

“I need to get over there! With the cub!”

Scott frowned but he didn’t argue and lifted the radio. He shouted into it. Seconds later, the helicopter retreated back toward the boat. He lowered the radio.

“We can’t land the chopper on the deck,” Scott said. “They’re going to drop a harness. It’s a short hop over the fire to the farm.”

As realization struck her, Lorna felt instantly ill. Her blood drained to her feet. Her stomach tried to follow.

“They can haul you all the way up into the helicopter,” Scott explained. “But it’ll be quicker if they don’t have to. They can simply ferry you in the harness.”

As she pictured swinging by a wire, the helicopter returned with a pounding sweep of its rotors. She looked up. Spooling from a winch by the chopper’s side door, a thick cable lowered down a yellow rescue harness.

She suddenly regretted her rash decision. She hadn’t fully thought this through. It was bad enough flying in a chopper while
inside
the cabin.

The harness arrived, swinging and bobbing. Garcia grabbed it and hauled it toward her. She fought not to back away. It took all her will to simply hold her ground.

Scott took the blanket-wrapped cub as Garcia helped her into the harness. He slipped it over her head and under her arms, then cinched it tightly. “Are you okay?” he asked.

As answer, she pointed. “Pass me my rifle.”

Childress retrieved the tranquilizer gun from the deck. With a bit of effort, she awkwardly slung it over her shoulder. Once she was ready, Scott passed the cub back to her. She hugged it to her chest.

Scott gave her a questioning thumbs-up.

Not trusting her voice, she merely nodded.

Satisfied, Scott backed a step and twirled his arm over his head.

The engine above gunned harder, and the harness suddenly dug into her armpits. Her legs lifted off the deck. She kicked, anxious to touch ground again. But it was too late. The helicopter climbed while, at the same time, the winch retracted several yards of the cable.

She stared down as the boat dropped away under her. She tore her gaze away. She wanted to close her eyes but knew that would terrify her even more. Ahead, the log home still blazed. The roof had long caved in, leaving behind a smoldering frame. Smoke poured upward, licking with flames.

The helicopter climbed higher, aiming to fly over the ruins. She didn’t think they’d make it. The pilot must have thought the same. The winch hauled her up farther. Then they were over the inferno.

The chopper’s blades cut through the smoke and swirled a searing tornado around her. She held her breath and finally closed her eyes. The heat scorched as if she were flying over the mouth of a volcano. She hugged hard to both the harness and the blanket-wrapped cub.

Seconds later, they were clear. The temperature plummeted. She took a tentative breath of clear air and squinted her eyes open. The view below was peppered by black ponds. Wooden walkways, platforms, and bridges filled the spaces in between, along with a few tin-roofed outbuildings. On the far side of the ponds, a circle of fire lit the dark bayou. People clustered in its center.

The campsite.

The helicopter banked in a gentle arc toward the encampment. Momentum swung her outward on the cable. Wind rushed over her. For just a moment she felt a flush of exhilaration—but only for a moment.

Movement drew her attention directly below.

A man burst out of one of the smaller shacks, an outbuilding sprouting a tangle of antennas. He pounded across the walkway below. He waved a thick black shotgun in one hand and cupped his mouth with the other, shouting. The roar of the helicopter drowned out his words. He must’ve heard the chopper and thought it was the Coast Guard rescue force.

Frantic that he was ignored, the man ran faster—too fast. He finally spilled over his own legs and went sprawling hard onto the planks. She watched his shotgun strike the boards. Even through the engine’s howl, she heard the gun blasts. A staccato series of slugs strafed out of the smoking muzzle.

Then the helicopter lurched above her, bobbling in the air.

Like a hooked trout on a line, she rocked and jerked in the harness.

Clutching for her life, she craned up. Oily smoke poured from the back of the helicopter. An unlucky round must have struck something vital.

The chopper tipped on its nose and began a fast descent, trailing flames now.

Lorna stared down as the world rushed up at her.

They were going to crash.