Soon they would be home. He could smell that too. And when they reached it, they would make a stand against the thing that hunted them.

Death.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

The Chumash believed that Death was dangerous company, a tangible thing that stayed behind after it claimed a victim. They believed that it inhabited minerals and also infiltrated living things, piggybacking itself on the soul or in the mind. Sometimes it lulled the host outright, sometimes it drove them mad before killing them.

In the end, of course, Death always won.

Grand didn't believe that. But as he rode in the noisy chopper with the dead saber-tooth, he felt more than just the loss of the cats. The scientist was sitting in a sling-seat near the door and the animal was lying on the canvas, trussed and uncovered. Yet there was still a sense of menace about it It was almost as if the saber-tooth could rise again.

If a cat has nine lives, how many would a saber-toothed cat have?

The scientist looked around the cabin. Gearhart was riding in the cockpit. He had the copilot's headset pressed to one ear. There was only one guardsman in the back and he was looking out the window.

Suddenly, Gearhart turned and shouted into the rattling-loud cabin. "Professor!"

Grand slid from the sling and went to the cockpit.

"We've got a new destination," Gearhart said.

"Where?"

"The Hollywood Hills," the sheriff said. "There's been another attack."

"When?"

"Within the last half hour or so." He offered Grand the headset. "Lieutenant Mindar wants to talk to you."

Grand switched places with Gearhart. The severed tail of the saber-tooth swung and bounced on the sheriff's left hip as he moved. It almost seemed alive. Grand looked into the cockpit as he slipped on the headset and adjusted the microphone. This was the first time he'd used one of these while standing up. Usually he was sitting in the pilot's seat of his small plane.

"This is Jim Grand."

"Professor, this is Lieutenant Sam Mindar. Did Sheriff Gearhart tell you about the attack?"

"Yes. Do we know how many cats?"

"No. The police are talking to someone who apparently arrived moments after it happened. The person saw large animals and the police found gold fur on the hedges. They're organizing a search of the hills right now."

It took a moment for all of that to register. The Hollywood Hills were to the southeast of their position. Depending on where the saber-tooths struck, they were within ten miles or so of the La Brea Tar Pits. They must have kept moving through the night. Perhaps the females had broken off to rest.

"The LA Chief of Police wants to divert your Chinook to help with the air search," Mindar went on. "Sheriff Gearhart also said you know where the cats are heading. I need that intel now. They're moving into a densely populated region and they have to be stopped."

"I agree," Grand said. "But they have to be stopped with tranquilizers, not bullets."

"Professor, I've discussed this with Sheriff Gearhart. Sedatives are notoriously unpredictable-"

"I understand," Grand said. "Keep your guns as backup. I'm not asking for guarantees, just a chance."

"To do what?"

"Capture them."

Lieutenant Mindar was silent for a moment. "Professor Grand, I can't give you my word about how this is going to be handled. Now that the situation has entered greater Los Angeles I won't be in charge of the operation. I'll talk to the police chief about sedating the creatures but it would help if you gave me some good-faith information to work with."

"All right," Grand said. "Tell him I may be able to figure out the exact route the saber-tooths are taking through the mountains. When I do, I should be able to get ahead of them and lure them to wherever they want."

"How will you do that? If they've already eaten, food won't-"

"I won't be using food," Grand said.

"What, then?"

"I'll be using tar."

"The La Brea Tar Pits," Mindar said. "Of course. That's where the animals are headed."

"Yes, but there are many ways they can get there and you can't cover them all. Look, I've fought these cats close-up. I think I can get near enough to bait them and get out again."

"You'd risk that to save them?"

"Absolutely."

"Fair enough," Mindar said. "I'll do what I can. Please put Sheriff Gearhart back on."

Grand handed the headset to Gearhart and they switched places again. The lieutenant had sounded like a reasonable enough man. Perhaps this wouldn't be as bad as he'd thought. But as he stood beside the sling-seat and looked back at the dead cat, curiosity, concern, and fear moved his mind in countless directions. He picked one.

Maybe he'd asked the wrong question before.

If a cat is slain, how many lives does its spirit demand in exchange?

Grand didn't believe that, yet he couldn't help but wonder if he was doing the right thing. Of course it was right to try to save the cats. At least on an emotional and scientific level, and certainly on an ecological one. But what about on a spiritual level? Even if the cats could survive in captivity, was it fair to take away their predatory imperative? The world was different from the one they'd known. They couldn't roam free.

Not that it mattered. It wasn't his decision to make. Providence had kept these cats alive. And not for science but for that fact, he would do everything possible to keep them alive.

Grand remained standing where he was as the scuffed floor vibrated and tilted beneath him. He had to call Hannah with this new information, get her to narrow her search. As he reached for the phone, his mind moved somewhere else. The scientist had devoted his life to studying the hunting techniques of ancient peoples. He wondered if they'd ever attempted what he was about to try.

Most likely, he decided. Pleistocene hunters were pretty resourceful. Grand wondered then, with a flash of concern, if it had actually been tried on these very cats-and if so, whether the saber-tooths had fallen for it.

Probably. So far they seemed to.

But primitive humans almost certainly never had to deal with the other questions that nagged at Grand. They had relied on one another to make weapons, shoes, and water pouches that wouldn't break. They had needed each other to guard their backs during a hunt, to watch campsites while they slept, and to protect the mates and children of men who were out searching for prey.

As his mind took yet another path the question that bothered Grand was whether he could do the same.

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Save for Hannah, the Wall-who was finishing up in the photo lab-and the night editor, Charlie Wong, the newspaper office was empty.

Hannah had written up the Monte Arido attack and collected the information Grand had requested. She called the cell phone. She hoped Grand had some ideas: What she had to tell him did not leave her optimistic.

Grand answered. The connection was weak and Hannah had to cover one ear to hear.

"Hello, Jim?"

"Hannah-I was just about to call. There's been another encounter, up on Coldwater Canyon in the Hollywood Hills."

"What happened?"

"The cats attacked an outdoor party," he said. "I don't know much more than that."

"Coldwater," she said. "That's right on your southeast beeline."

"I know. Have you got anything?"

"At least fourteen possible exits all around the Miracle Mile," she said. She looked at the geological charts. "But the route from Coldwater shouldn't be as difficult to trace. I can't read these things too well-but it looks like five or six trenches and faults lead in that direction."