Track Of The Cat

her. His eyes took all of her in from stem to stern. Or withers to rump. He had the look of a man admiring a bit of horseflesh.

'I heard you'd taken a tumble above Turtle Rock.'

'Stepped into nothing,' Anna said and accepted the coffee Lydia brought. The usual cowboy-sized mugs were missing. The coffee was served in white fluted china cups bordered with gold. She took a sip: instant. Anna added a generous dollop from the cream pitcher and the mess turned bluish gray: skim milk.

Paulsen drank his steaming hot and black. 'Bad luck. Y'all have had a rash of bad luck from what I hear. Some old boy just got himself snakebit? Hate those damn things. I know you folks over at the park coddle 'em like new calves but by God I still stomp every one that slithers across my path. Hating snakes is the natural state of man.'

Anna looked at him over the rim of her cup. The only thing the blue eyes gave away was a pleasant twinkle. Jerimiah D. was enjoying himself, Anna realized. He'd sparred with the National Park Service for twenty years. It was probably his favorite sport next to hunting.

Jerimiah D. Bells rang in Anna's head.

'What's the 'D' for?' she asked suddenly. 'Jerimiah D. Paulsen.'

'Well, now, where did you hear that?' he drawled and the twinkle in his eyes grew, if anything, brighter. Anna'd stumbled onto something but she had no idea what and, as he seemed to enjoy it, she suspected it was of no value.

Unable to remember where she'd heard it, Anna just smiled.

Paulsen rocked back, crossed his legs, resting his ankle on his knee, and grinned hugely. 'Since you been so nice as to come all the way over here to pay me a visit, I'll tell you.'

Now she knew it was of no value. Or he was going to tell her a lie.

'Dalrimple. My momma's maiden name. Daddy built this house for her. Jerimiah D. Paulsen. My old friends call me Jerimiah D.'

With a start, Anna remembered then where she'd heard it. The information wasn't nearly so useless as he'd thought. Maybe she didn't have what she wanted, but she had enough.

Sheila had seen something-probably stumbled on it by accident while patrolling the park perimeter for lightning strikes. They, in turn, had stumbled on her. Whatever the specifics were, Anna did not doubt Paulsen knew. She also knew this was not the way to outfox the bluff and hearty Mr. Paulsen. He'd been at it too many years, enjoyed the game too much.

Time had come to leave.

'You've an impressive collection,' Anna said, looking at a Sako hung above a wide mantel made of native rock. The barrel was polished with love and long use. The stock was intricately carved dark wood.

Paulsen, following her gaze, stood and walked over to the fireplace. He lifted the weapon down with the reverence of a pilgrim handling a piece of the true cross.

'This is my baby.' He sounded as if it were the literal truth. 'Finest weapon ever made. Bar none.'

Anna put down her coffee and joined him by the cold grate. 'May I?' she asked holding out her hands for the rifle.

He all but snatched it away, holding it possessively to his chest, then chuckling at his own reaction. 'Sorry, honey. Nobody touches her but Jerimiah D. Nobody. A man's got to have something that's all his own.' Reverently he replaced the rifle on its stone pegs.

'Now,' he said turning to Anna. 'What's on your mind? Much as it flatters an old man, you didn't drive all this way to have a cup of coffee with me.'

'I've been nosing around about the Dog Canyon ranger's death,' Anna told him. He would already know that much. 'There's talk of local ranchers wanting to wipe out the lion population in retaliation.'

Paulsen laughed, a series of voiceless gusts that came out his nose. 'Hell, we've been trying to do that for years. Y'all breed 'em up there in that damned park. It's a wonder there's a cow left west of the Pecos.'

Anna let that pass. She wanted to get on with her lie and get home. 'I was hoping I could convince you to speak out against it. You're one of the most influential ranchers on the New Mexico side.'

Paulsen was used to the ineffectual flattery and pleas of environmentalists. Anna hoped hers was commonplace enough to be believed.

He draped an arm around her shoulders. 'It ain't gonna happen. You got a lot to learn about ranchers. We defend what's ours. From varmints and the goddam Park Service.'

Anna shrugged off the heavy weight. 'Thanks for the coffee,' she said. 'I'll show myself out.'

The snorty chuckle followed her as far as the butler's pantry.

21

DR. Pigeon is in session… ah… Just a moment. Hold please.'

Anna sat in the semi-darkness of the Cholla Chateau's laundry room listening to Cheryl's laundry squeak around and around in the dryer.

The voice returned. 'May I say who's calling?' Molly had had the same receptionist for eleven years, an efficient woman who steadfastly refused to recognize Anna's voice.

'Her sister,' Anna said. The Open Sesame.

'One moment please.' There was a click, then strains of Handel's Water Music filled the earpiece. Molly soothing the savage beasts.

'Hallelujah!' Molly came on the line.

Anna glanced at her watch: five-thirty in Texas, seven-thirty in New York. 'You ran late with your last client.'

'Silly bugger wouldn't stop crying. I couldn't get a profound sentence in edgewise. And I was feeling particularly insightful today. What's up? You don't usually call this early in the week.'

The sucking sound: toxic, killing smoke going deep into her sister's lungs. Anna repressed a comment. It crossed her mind that, were she gone, there would be no one left to nag Molly, get her to quit before it was too late. 'Not much. Another 'accident.' A herpetologist bit the dust. Death by snakebite this time.'

'Jesus!' Molly laughed with the career New Yorker's reliance on black humor. 'Lions and tigers and snakes, oh my! You're on hold… can I pour you a drink?'

'Got one,' Anna replied and clinked her wine glass against the plastic mouthpiece.

'It figures,' Molly said. Handel flooded in. Anna was sorry she'd refrained from comment on the cigarette.

'Cheers.' A glass containing one careful shot of scotch clinked down the two thousand miles of wire from Manhattan.

'To old friends and better days,' Anna said and they drank in silence. 'I'm coming to New York,' she announced, deciding it in that instant. 'I'm going to camp on you and make end runs up to Westchester County to see Edith.'

'When? When are you coming?' Molly didn't sound as pleased as Anna had anticipated.

'I don't know…' Anna faltered. The plan was too new for dates. 'I've got a ton of annual leave coming to me. I thought I'd come in September if-'

'Ha!' Molly exploded. 'IF. What in the hell are you up to, Anna? What's going on? You're doing some silly damn thing with that snake and lion business.'

'What makes-'

'Hmph!' Molly cut her off. As children they'd both practiced doing hmph like it was spelled in books. Molly had become very good at it. 'Psychiatrists aren't omniscient for nothing,' she said. 'The snake and lion business, Anna. Out with it. I hate suspense. Always read the last page first. Adjust expectations.'

Anna sighed. 'I've done 'How,'' she admitted.

'And?' Molly demanded.

There were times Anna wished her sister had gone into interior decorating, labor relations, anything but what she had. But the obvious had never held any interest for Molly. EFFECT left her cold. It was CAUSE she was