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The hole in the floor measured eighteen inches by five inches where one old plank had split and fallen through. Animal fur fuzzed the splintered edges of the opening, clearly used as a critter path into the barn’s tack room.
September guessed this was a barn, probably abandoned since wildlife claimed the building. More likely feral cats set up housekeeping, if her nose wasn’t mistaken. Cat urine had its own special ambiance. Macy certainly thought the place an aromatic delight.
She crouched to shine the penlight into the hole. “No, stay back.” September gently restrained Macy. “We’ll play later.”
But they wouldn’t play, maybe never again. She pushed aside the crippling thought, and stopped him again when he would have followed the light into the hole, the chase-the-light game so ingrained he had only to see the shine to follow its path. He loved cubbyholes, and probably could squeeze his twenty-three-pound body through. But what then? How would she ever get him back?
Or should she try?
September remembered the step up to get into the place. There must be a crawl space under the floor, and the fur snagged on the hole pointed to another exit into the interior of the barn. Maybe an escape not only for Macy, but also for her. No way could she squeeze through. Not yet, anyway.
But if she could pry up another board or two, she could wiggle through. If the crawl space was deep enough. And if it led anywhere besides dead space under the floor. And if Victor was gone long enough. What time was his meeting tonight? Tonight—that meant after dark. So at least several hours, anyway.
Too many ifs. But no other options presented themselves.
Dropping her hand through the hole, September shined the penlight around inside, illuminating the dirt-floored crawl space. A well-worn path led toward the hidden stair step, back into the barn’s interior. That must be the way out.
She stretched out on the floor and pushed her arm as far inside the hole as she could reach to determine the depth of the crawl space. Cold ground stopped her hand about two feet down, and she flexed her icy fingers to keep circulation going. Two feet would be a tight squeeze.
She’d make it work. No other choice. She grappled left and then right, blindly, with one bare hand. Fluffy, soft material crinkled with something that sounded like paper and sticky cobwebs. Probably fur, desiccated vegetation, dust bunnies. Nesting material. At least it was too cold for spiders. She hoped nothing inside the burrow would mistake her fingers for hors d’oeuvres.
Reaching far forward, she brushed more wood, possibly the continuation of the wall, and followed its surface until she found another narrow opening. Her arm wasn’t long enough, nor could she see around the corner. But if the cats used it to gain access to the crawl space, it must be at least as large as the one into this room. Macy could get out.
“He could die.” She said the words aloud, and then wished she could take them back. Sending Macy into the crawl space put him at risk from coyotes, or the sick wildlife. He was a house pet, and had never had to hunt for a living beyond “killing” his toys.
His heart could give out.
As much as she yearned to hold him safe in her arms, she couldn’t protect Macy once Victor returned. Staying with her, Macy would die. Sending him away gave him a chance.
She couldn’t explain to the cat. If she showed him the hole, would he run, or instead try to come back to her? Would she have to scare him to make him leave? If she survived this—no, WHEN she survived this, would he hate her? Would he forgive her? How would she find him again?
Eight years ago after she’d escaped, she’d put the cello away because Victor might track her through the music. Turning her back on Melody nearly killed her, and she adopted Macy to ease the empty ache in her arms. Macy taught her to laugh again. Pets were safer than people; they didn’t pretend or wear a mask.
Shadow could track Macy. He’d survived the gunshot. She’d heard him follow the truck at least for a while. Would he follow this far, track her to the barn? He’d never been taught to track people, and wouldn’t know what to do on his own.
September wiped away tears, and with them the fantasy of a Lassie-inspired rescue. Once on the scent trail, Shadow ignored everything. On the road and oblivious to danger, he could be hit by a car. Or he could be bleeding from Victor’s gunshot. Shadow might be lost, alone and dying. That was the reality. “Baby-dog, please forgive me.”
And Macy was damned if he stayed and damned if he ran. He had a chance to survive only if he ran.
She knew what she’d tell clients. Some lost cats traveled miraculous distances to find their way home. The reality was grimmer.
God, she didn’t want to make this choice! This was Macy: the furry wonder who had healed her heart with his silly antics, his demands for attention and affection, his never-give-up pestering attitude and brilliant understanding of her moods. Macy gave her the courage to love again, to say yes to Chris and find some peace. For a while.
The big cat burbled and trilled, climbed into her lap and turned three times before settling into the makeshift nest of her crossed legs. He turned upside down, presenting his white chin and chest for scratches, half closing his eyes and increasing the volume on his Mac-truck purr.
He had something on his collar. She frowned, turning Macy around to better examine the object. “Hold still, buddy.” She shined the penlight. “Oh wow, I forgot about the GPS!”
A small plastic object had been attached to his collar. Timothy promised to charge the device, so all she’d have to do was finish the setup at home. That is, if she ever got home.
She would! By damn, she would get home again.
“Thank you, Timothy.” She stroked Macy, and his purr rumbled the small room. “Once I get out of here, that GPS will bring you home to me. Keep yourself safe until then, buddy, until I can set up the tracking. I promise.”
That eased her heart a little. It was still iffy, but she had to take the risk and turn the cat loose. Victor could return anytime now. “Maybe somebody will find you. Wish you could talk. You’d tell them how to find me, wouldn’t you?” The cat cheek-rubbed September’s face, smearing the tears she couldn’t control.
Pull yourself together. What do I do when a lost pet shows up? Even before finding someone to scan for a microchip, what do I do? “Check for a tag.”
September quickly rummaged in her pocket and retrieved the Sharpie marker she’d found earlier. “Hold still, Macy.” His rabies tag had her name and contact information, just as Shadow’s did. But that wouldn’t help anyone find her.
She turned the cat around, and wrote on the GPS tag. And then for good measure, she wrote in block letters on Macy’s white fur apron.
That finished, she reached for Fish’s file. Victor’s mention of the reporter indicated a connection that might be the key to getting out of this mess.
The thick file contained pages of scribbled notes nearly impossible to read in the dim glare of the penlight. It also included several internet printouts, some dated from several years earlier.
Scrapie. Wasting disease. Prions.
“It’s a brain disease.” That’s what made the animals sick? “Okay, Sly, tell me how they get it. And are people at risk?” That was the issue.
The government cracked down on foreign imports and tightened processing requirements. Today, even pet food manufacturers had layers of inspection to avoid a repeat of the crippling recall. But Felch said the pets and people got sick from the same cause. She skimmed the documents, and found the answer stapled to the back of the file. A slick flier, folded in three, included a red font that shouted the headline.
HOG HEAVEN HOSTS Hog Hell
Hog Hell. Pig hunts. She knew feral pigs made wallows out of plowed fields, uprooted crops, got into garbage and frequented dumps. They’d made a mess of her garden, too, and aggravated the crap out of Aaron.
She wrinkled her forehead, putting it together. Chronic wasting disease affected deer, but hunters harvested deer and took only the prime venison cuts, leaving behind the spine, legs, and head if it wasn’t trophy-worthy. People wouldn’t eat the deer parts that could infect them—the brain, especially.
But pigs would.
Feral hogs left nothing; they were nature’s garbage disposals. They ate acorns, dug up pastures and trashed seeded fields. They’d eat scraps hunters left behind. Like infectious deer parts? And if hogs ate something contaminated by sick deer, and people harvested the hogs...
“Oh, my God. It’s the hogs!”
Macy meowed at the exclamation and leaped off September’s lap.
That had to be it. Felch and BeeBo starred in the Hog Hell show. BeeBo’s dog was sick. Felch claimed to be sick, and had a run-in with the reporter, maybe to quash the story’s connection to the TV show. Lots of money was involved in making a show a success, not to mention rich endorsement deals for the stars. They had lots of incentive to make the story go away. She read the flier again, and realized what it meant. “Oh dear God, they’re feeding everyone at the party!”
Barbecued feral hog would be served at the Hog Heaven restaurant. Tonight. That must be the important meeting Victor must attend. And Piggy Panache gift boxes of what they called “piggy treats” distributed for the holiday gift giving season.
Horrified, she read that the TV show would offer ordering information to viewers. No wonder they wanted to keep any rumors quiet, at least until after the premier. If the meals and the samples were contaminated, a widespread infection could affect thousands or even millions of innocent victims. How long would it take for the disease to cripple the fans?
It sounded bizarre, like one of Sly’s wild, made up stories. But a farfetched rumor would kill the show as effectively as the real thing. They must be desperate to keep things quiet.
She didn’t know how Victor became involved. Was he one of the actors, too? She’d never seen the show, but that would explain his willingness to protect his job.
Victor knew Sly had talked to her, so he had even more reason to keep her under wraps, and then whisk her out of town. He would have killed her already, if he didn’t have other plans for her.
It wasn’t about outwitting a stalker anymore. September had to get out before Victor came back. She had to stop the poison from being served.
She nuzzled the cat. “You’re not going alone, Macy. Time to get that hole bigger.” September retrieved the cello endpin and set to work.
