Horse of a Different Killer (18 page)

I'd come to realize one of the reasons Boris liked me so much was not so much for my ability to communicate with him, but that my dark hair and light eyes reminded him of his favorite human, Brooke.

The girl beamed. “So, you think he'll like it?”

“I do.” I turned back to the rest of the group. “Just let me know when Hugh's ready. I'll take care of Boris. Brooke, you can help me.” Hugh, Ozeal, and the news crew started to walk away, but I touched my sister's arm, holding her back.

I stepped away from Brooke and said quietly, “I'm not sure about this woman, Em. She's . . . shifty.”

“She's a reporter, of course she's shifty.”

“And did you see how touchy-feely she was with Hugh?”

My sister rolled her eyes. “He's the reason she wanted to do the piece, remember?”

I did. “Just make sure if anything weird happens, you take out the cameraman.”

“Seriously? There's a chance of that?”

“Probably not. But the only thing worse than one of us getting mauled would be to have it immortalized on film to be played over and over on the news.”

She stared at me, brows raised.

“I mean it, Emma.”

“Okay. I'll take out the cameraman if anything happens.”

I nodded and turned back to Brooke.

We headed through a small gate and around to the path that ran along the perimeter fence. “You think Boris will like his collar because it smells like me?”

“Yep,” I told her as we walked toward the long cement-block building attached to the rear of the tiger's enclosure. “I just hope he doesn't like it too much.”

“What do you mean?”

“You know how dogs chew up their owner's shoes and stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, usually they do that because shoes, socks, or whatever smell like a person they love and chewing on it envelops them in that person's scent, which makes them happy.”

“So you think he'll eat his collar?”

“Only one way to find out, kid.”

I pushed open the metal door to the tiger house. Bright afternoon sunlight streamed through the high, narrow windows and cast a rectangular spotlight on the superstar of that day's production.

The light made every exquisite detail of the cat's sinewy body stand out in high relief. He twisted his head around to look at us. The black around his golden green eyes gleamed, his pupils, despite the sun, enlarged slightly when he saw us, then contracted again.

With a happy, moaning growl, Boris rolled to his feet and stepped to the interior cage door.

He let out a few chuffs and pressed his forehead against the chain-link.

Pet.

I scratched him between the ears. As soon as we made contact, his thoughts streamed into my head.

More.

“Scoot back, buddy, I need some room,” I told him as I pushed on the interior gate. At the same time, I mentally urged him to back up.

Boris obliged, and I slipped inside.

He bumped his head against my hip and slid his face along the crease of my jeans. The action both marked me as his and scratched a spot just past his whiskers.

As I went to fasten the collar around his neck, light caught the facets of the rhinestones and bounced off the walls in hundreds of tiny rainbows.

Boris watched the dancing lights for a moment with interest then nuzzled at my hand.

Pet
.

I rubbed his ears and under his chin slowly, taking extra time to assess his mood and add a nice layer of good vibrations of my own.

“What's he saying?” Brooke asked.

“Not much, just happy to get scratched in all the right spots.” I glanced over at her. “See if Hugh's ready, then come back and open the door.”

She nodded and left. I took the opportunity to pull in a couple of deep breaths and push any negative feelings out of my head.

By the time Brooke returned, I was as calm and centered as I was going to get.

The guillotine door leading to the exterior enclosure operated on a pulley system. I signaled to Brooke that I was ready and she grabbed the rope and hoisted the door. The opening was about a three-by-three-foot square, plenty of space for a tiger, but a tiger and a person was a little tricky.

Boris and I both tried to go through at the same time and I got a little squished against the side in the process.

With a grunt, I stumbled through the opening like a wounded water buffalo, and tried not to think about the camera pointed in our direction.

Hugh, looking handsome and relaxed, sat on the thick log that lay across the center of the enclosure. Boris recognized him instantly.

Doc!
He let out a chuff of happiness and greeted Hugh with a good-natured head-butt. Then, with a bit of encouragement from me, he turned and plopped down at Hugh's feet.

I gave Boris a pat and stepped back so I was out of the camera's frame.

In situations like this, I try to keep my mind set firmly in ready-for-anything mode.

Unfortunately, some things can't be planned for.

I'd been focusing on keeping the link open to Boris, and gently poured happy, friendly images and emotions into his mind, all the while halfway listening to the interview.

Hugh talked about how much tigers, and Boris in particular, liked water and how much the cat would love a pond large enough to swim in.

Boris, for his part, was acting like a ham. He rubbed his face on Hugh's knees and made happy-tiger sounds.

“What the hell?” Hugh's words prompted me to follow his gaze. I saw two sheriff's deputies approaching my sister. Taking point in front of the two men was Detective Boyle.

The camera swung around to capture the scene.

“Emma Olivia Wilde.” Boyle's voice was loud and authoritative. “You're under arrest for the murder of Anthony Ortega.”

Handcuffs snapped onto my sister's wrists and Boyle, still with her ridiculous escort, turned my sister and led her away.

Anita Margulies went into attack mode in the blink of an eye. She started asking questions about Ortega.

Understanding hit me when she jammed a microphone toward my sister and asked, “Was the murder retribution for the way he treated you? Or was it self-defense?”

This was a setup. A surge of outrage exploded through me and kept on going—right into Boris.

I wasn't physically touching the tiger but he reacted anyway. Before I could rein in my temper, the tiger belted out a snarl and shot to his feet. The target of his sudden, confusing rage was, of course, Hugh.

Without thinking, I grabbed the only part of the tiger I could—his tail.

I can promise you this: The warning you've heard about tigers and tails is completely, 100 percent legitimate.

Boris whirled on me, jerking his tail out of my hands as he spun.

Two things saved my life.

One—in the milliseconds that passed between realizing we'd been set up and facing vivisection via tiger, my emotions bounced all over the place. Fury, dread, disbelief, confusion . . .

Thanks to our mental connection, I'd brought Boris along for the ride and that left him disoriented.

But what really saved my bacon was this fact: I am a klutz.

The irony that I ended up being named Grace is a cosmic joke.

Half a second after losing my grip on Boris's tail, I stumble-stepped back, tripped, and landed with a splash in his little pool.

The shock of the cold water was enough to short-circuit all other emotions. Abruptly, I wasn't angry or frightened or anything. My mind was utterly blank.

Luckily, Boris's love of water filled the void with a single idea.

Play!

A moment later, he leapt into the water. Siberian tigers are the world's largest cat, weighing well over six hundred pounds. Even with the water as a buffer, I felt it when he landed on me.

I would have panicked, if the tiger suddenly standing on my chest hadn't been so delighted with our game.

His joy and excitement fluttered through me and, despite being trapped underwater, I felt my lips stretch into a smile.

All this happened in less than five seconds, but I was still running out of time.

Not just because I couldn't breathe—though that was a concern—but because the people who were no doubt watching didn't know Boris wanted to play, not kill.

To ward off any aggressive action from the humans, I raised my hand out of the water, waved and gave the thumbs-up signal.

Swim!
Boris urged.

Sounds good, buddy. You've just got to let me up first.

Rather than pushing against his chest, which would have gotten me nowhere, I nudged the leg pinning me with my free hand. Boris understood my request and shifted his weight, sliding his paw off to the side.

Relieved, I moved to sit up, but couldn't.

What the . . . ?

It took every ounce of control I had not to start flailing around in terror.

Dimly, I realized my shirt must have been caught on one of the tiger's claws.

My oxygen-deprived brain struggled to cobble together a solution.

An idea came to me with the speed of a sedated manatee. I raised my hand out of the water a second time, opened my palm wide and focused every functioning brain cell I could to issue a single command.

Five!

Boris, gimme five!

The tiger lifted his paw and batted my hand, freeing my shirt from his claw. I popped to the surface, gulped in a breath, coughed, then managed to sputter, “Good boy.”

“Grace?”

Hugh was on his feet, hand on the butt of his dart gun.

I wiped water from my eyes and maneuvered onto my knees.

“We're okay.” I panted.

Ozeal had made it through the tiger house and was scrambling through the guillotine door.

“We're okay,” I said more loudly.

I didn't dare look to where I'd seen Boyle leading my sister away. I couldn't even risk thinking about it.

To Hugh, I said softly, “Give me a minute with Boris, okay?”

He hesitated, then moved to where Ozeal was crouched. Both of them ducked through the opening, one after the other. After a few seconds, the door slid closed.

Boris watched Hugh leave and turned back to me, eyes hopeful.

As I begin to regain my senses, I understood what the tiger wanted. The reward for his trick.

Swim!

“Not much room in here,” I told him, standing slowly and stepping out of the pool. Goose bumps rose on my skin almost instantly. “How about some catnip instead?”

Boris loved catnip and five minutes later he was happily rolling around with a bag of it and I was headed through the guillotine door into the tiger house.

Brooke, who had fetched the catnip and was now acting as gatekeeper, lowered the door behind me with a rasping
cl
ang
.

“Thanks,” I said as I moved through the next gate and secured the latch. “Did you and Cody happen to see a red backpack when you loaded that hay in Bluebell?”

She blinked at me, uncomprehending.

“I try to keep a change of clothes—” A more careful look at her face had me pulling up short. The girl looked almost as upset as she had the first time we'd met, when she'd believed I was trying to kill her, so her expression made me step back and ask, “What?”

After a second, I understood.

Through the closed door, to the tiger house, I could hear Anita Margulies peppering Ozeal with questions. Evidently, the reporter had followed my sister as far as possible, then doubled back to spring on Ozeal.

What had I expected? Of course the reporter would be asking questions. It was her job, but I didn't like what I was hearing. Not at all.

“Do you deny a connection to organized crime?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Ozeal said.

“Do you know Charles Sartori?”

“Stay here,” I ordered Brooke in a low tone.

Trying to ignore my dripping clothes and sodden appearance, I stepped out of the door and into the spotlight.

The reporter whirled toward me as soon as I opened the door. “Miss Wilde, what do you have to say about your sister's arrest?”

The camera swung to focus on me like the Eye of Sauron.

It took effort, but I ignored both the question and the camera and looked at Ozeal.

The usually unflappable woman seemed shell-shocked under the barrage of questions. It made me want to snatch the camera, throw it to the ground and stomp it into little bitty pieces.

“Is this facility a front for organized crime?”

“Four hundred,” I said, keeping my voice as clear and steady as I could.

“Excuse me?” The reporter looked at me as if I'd spoken in pig latin.

“There are less than four hundred Siberian tigers left in the wild. Careless accusations put not only this tiger's home but his life at risk.” I looked her in the eye. “It's appalling.”

Her lips parted.

Yes. I just accused her of being a tiger killer.

Phil, the cameraman, started to angle his lens to point at the ground. The reporter noticed and shot him a look sharp enough to slice flesh. He straightened.

“People deserve to know the truth.” Anita Margulies threw her shoulders back in defiance. “My source tells me there's a connection between this facility and Charles Sartori's criminal organization.”

Apparently, Mrs. Margulies didn't know the big connection was Sartori's daughter, a sixteen-year-old girl who loved animals and volunteered to help them. I wasn't about to drag Brooke into it.

“Your source?” I scoffed. “You mean Detective Tammy Boyle, who herself has been investigated for probable ties to organized crime?”

Oh yeah. I went there.

Anita Margulies's eyes narrowed. I could tell she was weighing her options, but I didn't know what else to say to make her back off.

The tiger stats had been my trump card. I mean, really, what kind of a soulless degenerate would spit in the face of a critically endangered species?