Cat's Claw (A Pecan Springs Mystery)

this happened nearly twenty-four hours ago. The chances of tracking the animal are slim to none. Still, we can’t have a killer on the loose. The ranchers around here will want to see this one dead in a hurry.” He looked down at the body again. “A first for Texas, far as I know. Don’t think we’ve ever had a mountain lion kill a human before. They mostly go for deer, goats, sheep.”
    China Bayles stepped forward. “It might be easier than you think,deputy. Our neighbor shot a mountain lion last night. It was after his sheep. He said that the animal had a four-inch gash on its head. I’m thinking about that rock I showed you, the one with the blood and the fur on it. If Timms was able to pick it up and get in a good blow, he could have made that wound. If that’s the case, the cat that killed Timms is already dead.”
    “That would be one colossal lucky break,” the deputy said, sounding relieved. He turned to the second deputy. “Bag that rock with the blood and the fur on it, Mitch.” He pulled out his notebook. “Neighbor’s name, Ms. Bayles?”
    “Tom Banner,” China said. “Lives just off Limekiln Road, a couple of miles east of here. He probably hasn’t disposed of the carcass yet. Maybe a stomach analysis will show—” She made a retching noise and turned away into the bushes.
    Sheila glanced down again at Timms and shuddered. She had seen enough killings to be used to the sight of dead bodies, of accident and—yes—murder victims mutilated in sometimes unimaginable ways. But most of the dead had faces. George Timms didn’t. He didn’t have a scalp or much of a belly left, either. The animal had ripped him open, satisfied its hunger with the soft parts, and then scraped a neat, tidy mound of sticks over the meal so it could come back for a second helping. No part of the kill was scattered, except for the inedible hat and Rolex and the Nike-clad foot that had been left on the trail. In fact, it seemed to Sheila that there was a kind of ritual fastidiousness about this burial, a scrupulous care, one animal preserving and honoring another in death. And while any taking of human life was terrible, this taking was somehow less ugly and more explicable than many. This wild animal had not killed out of anger or hatred or passion, as so-called civilized humans did. Itkilled and consumed as part of a natural process, to preserve its physical life.
    But Sheila knew that this did not diminish the terror that the victim must have felt in his last few moments of conscious thought. Judging from what she could see on the path, George Timms had died a violent and horrible death. The cougar had been lurking in the brush or lying on a low limb of a live oak, perhaps waiting for a deer to come along the path, up from the creek. Instead, Timms had come down the hill and into the animal’s line of sight.
    Why? Timms’ binoculars were on the table beside his partially eaten meal. Perhaps he had glimpsed the cat and, not quite sure what he had seen, had gone down to investigate, not thinking of the possible risk. Most city people were completely clueless about the predators of the Hill Country, from rattlesnakes and cottonmouths and copperheads to wild cats.
    But no one would ever know for certain what had happened, because there was no one left alive to tell the tale. All that could be known was what could be read from the marks along the trail. Timms had been in a hurry, taking long, sure strides toward the creek. The animal had launched itself onto his back, knocking off his red Texas Rangers baseball cap. Timms was fit, but he was only Sheila’s height and less than 170 pounds—facts that did not work in his favor. He had staggered, suddenly burdened by an animal that could have weighed as much as he did. Powerful claws sank deep into the flesh of his shoulders, muscular jaws bit his neck, drawing blood. He struggled to keep to his feet, instinctively putting down a hand to brace himself and leaving the imprint of a flat palm and fingers in the soft dirt.
    And he hadn’t given up without a battle. The bloodied chunk oflimestone China had found, with a scrap of fur clinging to it—Timms must have grabbed the rock and hit the animal as hard as he could. And the snapped sapling, the scatter of branches, scuffed soil and leaves, the dark spill of blood. Was it in the fight that the lion had broken Timms’ neck? Or had that come a moment later, when the animal clamped the man’s head in his jaws and