Excerpt from “Lady Killer”

By

Kathleen Creighton
 
Text Box: * * * * * * * * …She turned off the motor and opened the door. Then the noise hit her. Hilda’s frantic barking. And something else. Something that made the hair prickle on the back of her neck: The unmistakable scream of an angry cougar. Whispering—whimpering—“OhGodohGodohGod, please God…no…” under her breath, Brooke tumbled out of the pickup and raced through the open middle of the barn. Out the back and down the lane between the animal pens she ran, not even aware of her feet touching the ground. The cougar’s screaming and Hilda’s barking grew louder as she ran, filling her head, filling her with a fear so terrible she couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, could barely even see. What she did see, as if through the wrong end of a telescope, was Hilda, lunging frantically at the gate to the wire-enclosed compound far down at the end of the lane and barking with frustration at her inability to get past the high chain-link barricade. Brooke felt a momentary surge of relief, followed by an even more desperate fear. Lady—thank God! She’s not loose after all! But—oh God—where is Daniel? Oh my God—Daniel! Her son was nowhere in sight, but for Hilda to be so upset he had to be here. Which could only mean one thing. He was inside the cougar’s compound. But why? Although she and Daniel had raised the cougar together from a tiny kitten, the boy knew very well Lady wasn’t a pet, that she was a wild predator and could never be trusted. Daniel would never go into her cage. Not alone. He just wouldn’t. But he had. She could hear him now, his voice quavering and breathless one moment, firm and commanding the next. And he sounds so very, very young. Shouting, sobbing: “No—no, Lady—back, Lady—back!” Sobbing herself, now, Brooke reached the cougar’s enclosure, and gripping the wire with both hands, she stared in disbelief at the scene beyond the fence. Danielwith his back to her, her child, holding a rake aloft like a battle sword and a saddle blanket folded over his other arm like a shield, facing down a full-grown mountain lion. And the lion, teeth bared, screaming and snarling in fury as she backed slowly toward the door to her holding cage, pausing now to swipe at the air with her claws. “Daniel!” His name felt ripped from her throat by forces outside herself. He didn’t turn, but she heard his breathless, “I’m okay, Mom.” At that moment the cougar, for whatever reason--perhaps returned to sanity from whatever terrible place she’d been by the voice of the only mother she’d ever known?—gave one last huffing growl, turned and sprang through the door and into her cage. Daniel scrambled after her to throw the bar across the door. By that time Brooke had opened the gate to the compound and was there to catch him when he turned, sobbing, into her arms. But he’d only let himself stay there a moment, of course, being all too mindful of the fact that he was the man in their household now. For the space of a couple of deep, shuddering breaths he gripped her tightly, arms wrapped around her waist, and allowed her to smooth his sweat-soaked hair with her own shaking hands. Then he let go, stepped back and wiped his face with a quick swipe of a forearm, leaving a smear of mud across one hot red cheek. “She didn’t mean to, Mom. I know she didn’t mean to.” His words came rapidly, choked and breathless with his efforts to hold the tears at bay. “Daniel, honey, what—” She reached for him, but he took another step back, eluding her, and shook his head with a heartbreaking desperation. “She didn’t mean to hurt him. I know she didn’t.” “Honey, hurt who? What are you—” “It’s Dad.” He grew still, with a calm that was somehow more frightening than the tears. He drew a deep breath and brushed once more at his damp cheeks. “I think he’s dead, Mom.” His eyes moved, looking past her. Biting back another question, Brooke instead jerked herself around to follow his gaze, and saw what she hadn’t before when her entire focus had been on her son and the cougar. Saw what looked like a pile of tumbled rags lying a little farther along the base of the chain link fence. She stared at it, shock numbing her mind, paralyzing her body, so that for a moment she didn’t register what she was seeing. Then she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Couldn’t let herself believe. The unthinkable. Not rags, but clothing. A man’s clothing—jeans and a tan colored shirt. With blood on them. Scuffed cowboy boots turned at an odd angle. And a brown Stetson, the kind the sheriff’s deputies wore. She knew that Stetson. She knew those boots. She didn’t know how long she stood there, unable to move, unable to think. Then Daniel moved, started toward the body—for that’s what it undeniably was--on the ground, and she reached out and grabbed hold of his arm and pulled him back. “No—no, honey. Don’t--” Her voice broke. “But what if he needs help? What if he’s—” Brooke just shook her head. She simply couldn’t make any more words come out of her mouth. Then, from far off in the distance, she heard sirens. Kathleen Creighton-Fuchs Copyright 2009

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