Bone Maze

Chapter 1

He was a predator, and he was driven to hunt. He had evolved over millions of years to become the perfect killer. The 180 pound beast could accelerate to 50 miles per hour in 2 seconds. He could outrun a deer, a coyote or a greyhound and leap 27 feet. He could detect a human up to a mile away by scent and could hear someone cough at a quarter mile. His eyes had excellent night vision, able to see in almost total darkness. He was a Florida panther.

He was now being driven by some force he didn’t understand to hunt and stalk and kill. It was not hunger that drove him but something foreign. And this was not his normal hunting ground. This was a strange alien place with artificial light and smooth floors, but it was where he needed to be. This is where his prey was. The big cat was pulled by the anticipation of the kill, and he flicked his tail restlessly. He felt a tenseness that would not let him rest until he had found the one he sought. The scent of humans was very strong in this place. His survival instincts were telling him to be cautious. He raised his head and sniffed the air. The female human he sought was here, and she was close. He possessed an instinctive ability to move with stealth and cunning until it was time to strike. He didn’t have to think about it.

A human was approaching, the big cat could hear footfalls, but it was the wrong human. He looked for a place to hide. There was a tall metal box next to him. The beast leaped on top of the metal box and tucked in his paws and tail tightly. He grew very quiet as the human rounded the corner ahead, passed down the hall and under him. After the human had passed by, the beast leaped down to the cold floor again and continued his hunt.

As he got closer to his prey, his movement became an economy of effort. Only his paws, legs and shoulder blades slowly moved. His head extended forward in perfect alignment with his ramrod straight spine, his body a spear pointed at his target. His ears laid back, listening for sounds behind him.

He went through a doorway and saw the human female he was seeking. She was with another. He backed up and hid behind a wall and silently watched and waited.

• • •

I don’t know if we have enough chairs, said Becky Wallace. She was fretting over every detail of her show. It wasn’t really that big a deal in the scheme of things, but these were her seniors. She had been working with them for three months, getting them ready for this. This was their first show in public. They had been working furiously on costumes and their musical parts. They were all very excited. She loved working with older people. They were so appreciative.

How many did you have for your last group? asked Allan, her assistant.

She stopped chewing her fingernail and looked at her hand. Her nails looked awful. Why couldn’t she break herself of this bad habit? She ran her fingers through her short auburn hair and sighed. About 300, I think. Mostly relatives and friends. But they were enthusiastic.

Okay, I’ll go get some more. He turned and walked away.

She went back to her preparations. She walked up the stairs onto the stage and picked up a broom and began sweeping. Her cell phone twittered. She took it out and looked at the caller ID.

Hi, Joanna.

Hi Becky. I’m leaving for the store now. How much punch do you think I should get for tonight?

She furrowed her brow in thought. At least 4 bottles, and 2 bottles of Sprite.

You mean the 2 liter bottles, right?

Yes, and… She stopped. Something moved near the doorway. She turned to face the door, but didn’t see anything. Her imagination?

And what? asked Joanna.

Oh…call Lou and see if she has some decaf. There isn’t any here that I could find.

Okay, did you check in the office?

Yes… Becky stopped again. Something was moving quietly down the aisle between the rows of folding chairs. It was tawny colored. An animal of some kind, probably a dog.

Is something wrong, Beck?

I think someone’s dog got in here. A big one. I’m going to have to chase it out.

Okay, be careful. Dogs can be mean!

I know. I’ll be… She heard the low growl before she noticed the smell. It was the feral odor of rotten meat and something else. Something wild. This was not a dog! She walked to where she could see down the aisle and froze. Her eyebrows shot up and her mouth dropped open with shock when she found herself staring into the amber eyes of a big cat stalking her. It was huge! It was moving slowly with its head low and eyes locked on her, and the fur along its back was standing up like bristles. It issued a low throaty growl that seemed to start as a rumble from deep in its chest. It caused the folding chairs to rattle slightly.

An icy hand gripped Becky’s stomach and her mind went numb. She wanted to run, but her muscles would only tremble. This demonic thing was coming for her and it had murder in its eyes!

Hello, Becky? Is the dog still there?

Becky stood petrified as the big cat got closer and closer. She tried to say something to Joanna but her throat was so knotted all she could get out was a squeak. The cat was only about thirty feet away now and Becky fought to unlock her legs.

The big cat stopped and gathered its hind legs under it getting ready to make the leap up onto the 5 foot stage.

Finally Becky’s legs started working and panic kicked in. Becky said, Shit! and let go of the phone and the broom. They hit the floor with a clatter, and Becky ran to the back of the stage. She tried to open the dressing room door, but it was locked. She started looking for an avenue of escape. The big cat leaped to the stage and bellowed its piercing scream. This was intended to incapacitate its prey.

Becky screamed too, but hers was a scream of pure terror. She could still hear Joanna’s voice.

What was that? Becky? That didn’t sound like a dog!

The big cat began to pad toward her with deliberate slowness. Becky bleated like a small frightened animal that was about to become a predator’s lunch. A trapped animal that had seen its fate and was helpless to prevent it. A defenseless animal looking into the cold amber eyes of death.

She decided to flee the stage. She turned and ran to her left, but the big cat lunged and caught her with its huge claws at the edge of the stage, and the momentum carried them both off the stage and to the ground. Becky was on her back and the cat was sitting on her with claws embedded in her chest and breathing its hot fetid breath in her face. She was in great pain, but she reached up and feebly tried to force him off her. She couldn’t. He was too heavy and her left arm felt like it was broken. She wanted to scream, but could only get out a terrified sob. Without warning the cat darted its head forward and clamped its mouth on her throat. It’s two inch canines and lower one and a half inch incisors easily pierced her throat and closed behind her esophagus. Then in one motion the cat savagely ripped out Becky’s throat with a wet snap, letting the spurting blood bathe its muzzle and the scent flood its nostrils.

And Becky could sob no more. As her inner fires slowly extinguished, she thought, who’s going to clean up this mess?

Chapter 2

I have an active mind. I wonder about things that don’t seem important to anybody else, but me, and that’s a problem. For instance, I found a wall switch in my house that doesn’t seem to be connected to anything. Why is that? I’ve looked all over the house, but it controls nothing, so why is it there? It bothers me. It’s an itch I can’t reach, ya know? I saw a menu item one time in a fancy restaurant. Candied asparagus. Now, how can that be? Two terms that shouldn’t ever be in the same sentence. Candy and asparagus. That bothered me for days.

Anyway, I was at home watching NCIS and eating Lean Cousine lasagna when my cell went off. It was Flemming, a detective with Orange County. I hadn’t heard from him in a while.

Hi Al! Haven’t heard from you in a long time.

Yeh, Bone. Hey, do you know a Rebecca Wallace?

Al Flemming wasn’t one for small talk. He got right to the point.

I don’t really know her. She came to see me about two weeks ago. A feeling of dread. Uh oh! What happened?

She was killed. Strangest thing I’ve ever seen. Why don’t you come down.

Okay, but why? You know I’m not with OPD anymore, right?

I know. We called you because she had your business card in her pocket. We need to talk to you.

Okay. Be right there.

Flemming gave me an address in Azalea Park. It was an Orlando suburb.

My name is Bonito Ramsey, but all my life people have just called me Bone. That’s not a bad nickname, I guess, although it does have its drawbacks. Mostly because of the obvious phallic implications, and believe me, I’ve heard every sexual joke and innuendo there is. Do you have a permit for that boner, Bone? How many women have you boned, Bone? There are just too many people in this world who think they are clever, ya know? I just laugh it off. What else can you do?

I served 6 years in the Army Rangers and 12 years with the Orlando Police Department. I made detective and I was doing good until I had a run in with three brothers named Whitaker. I was investigating them for drug trafficking, and they decided to teach me a lesson one night. To make a long story short, I sent three Whitakers to the emergency room that night. The Whitakers, as it turned out, were connected. They brought suit against the OPD and even got a few witnesses to lie for them. I started the whole thing, they said. The Whitakers were unarmed, they said. It wasn’t the first time I’d had complaints filed against me. But the chief came down hard on me this time, and I lost my cool. I quit!

I’m trying to make a go of it alone now and not doing very well. I have a security consulting business and I got my private investigator’s license last year. And I hire out as a body guard and a bouncer because, well, I know how to handle myself. If you want references, ask three brothers named Whitaker. When I was fresh out of the Army, I did free style cage fighting in Miami and I was pretty good too. Undefeated, in fact. But I don’t do that kind of thing anymore because, well, I’m 42, and I don’t have anything to prove. I’ve tried to stay in shape by going to the gym. I’m what you would call solidly built at 6’ 2" and 220. I feel I look younger than my age although every time I look in the mirror, I see a few more lines. My hair used to be kind of a pecan color, but now it’s streaked with gray. My eyes are blue according to my driver’s license but sometimes I say gray. They are really more the color of pewter.

I have a pretty good face with a strong chin and jaw. I’ve had my share of women. They used to flock to me in my younger days, but not too much any more. I was married for a while, and I have two kids. I call them kids, although Ryan is 20 and Lena is 19 now.

Some people have a naturally jovial look, you know? They invite people to come up and converse with them just by walking into a room. My face generally has a brooding look. I just naturally look like I am contemplating suicide all the time. People tend to keep their distance, unless they work at Suicide Prevention.

I found the address Flemming gave me. I stepped out into the cool night air and breathed in a floral scent. This was the Orlando suburbs in November. The surrounding homes were nothing spectacular but nice solid stuccoed family abodes for the working class. I was standing in the parking lot of the New Vista Community Center. It was a large tan stuccoed building with a row of huge plate glass windows on two sides. There was a large banner hanging over the doorway proclaiming Tonight! Guys and Dolls! I counted 4 Orange County Sheriff’s cruisers with lights flashing and a crime scene van and the ME van and Channel 2 News van and the Channel 6 News van.

I walked up to the yellow crime scene tape and said, Ramsey. Here to see Flemming. The young officer checked a clipboard, lifted the tape and allowed me to enter.

I walked down a long brightly lit hallway with emerald linoleum tiles and cream walls. As I passed a large metal supply cabinet, I could hear a police radio squawking codes in a female voice up ahead. The hallway opened onto a multipurpose room about the size of a basketball court. There were many folding chairs lined up in straight rows and there was the unmistakable odor of death, the metalic slightly sweet smell of blood and the feral odor of something fetid. In the southeast corner next to the stage there were bright working lights set up and CSI techs. I headed in that direction.

Flemming saw me and came over. Damnedest thing, Bone. I don’t think this was a homicide. More like an act of nature. Take a look.

When I walked up, I knew it was Becky. That was her face with her lips peeled back in a silent scream and her blue eyes were wide with shock, but she was laying in a huge pool of blood. Her white blouse had been shredded, and her throat was gone. There were just a few bloody vertebrae of her spinal column where her neck should be and bloody bits of meat and sinew hanging from her skull and chest and trailing onto the floor like bits of red and white yarn. There were tracks going through the blood and away from the body. They looked like a big animal. What the hell? I said.

Yeh. Looks like a big cat, said Flemming. He was a thin fine-featured black man who thought he was a clothes horse. This evening he was modeling a cinnamon Brooks Brothers suit with a maroon Hugo Boss tie and expensive-as-hell black Italian loafers. His sheriff’s badge was stylishly arranged to display on his upper left coat pocket. His blue latex gloves didn’t exactly match the rest of his ensemble, but they never matched anything anyway.

A cat? Are you sure? I asked, standing there in my very best black polyester Orlando Magic jacket and knit golf shirt.

Yes, we brought in a trapper from Orange County Big Cat Rescue who identified it. Florida panther, male, about 180 pounds.

Those cats are pretty rare, aren’t they? Which guy is he? I said looking around.

Not here right now. He went after the thing. These tracks go right out the back door. He thinks the cat’s making a run for it now to the east where there’s wilderness.

How did it get in?

Right through the front door. It was propped open because they were bringing in chairs. This happened just after sunset.

And no one else was here?

There were 5 other people around. They were outside. When they heard the roar they weren’t sure where it was coming from. Then they heard a second louder roar and a scream and they came running, but by then it was too late. The first man on the scene, said Flemming, who paused to look at his notes, was Allan Creed who saw the thing sitting on top of her. When it saw him, it took off.

Now, said Flemming. He turned to face me, squared his shoulders and said, It’s my turn to ask questions. Why did she come to you?

I went back to the day she walked into my office. She had a bright scrubbed freckled face but seemed apprehensive about something. She kept chewing her nails. Well, I think she was kind of paranoid, but after this, I gestured to the body, maybe not.

Paranoid?

She thought she was being followed. She went to the OPD and they said there was not much they could do. So she came to me.

Flemming said nothing just nodding.

All I know about her is she’s a music teacher at the high school, and she volunteers with the senior center here, and they do Broadway shows and things locally. I tailed her for awhile and didn’t see anything suspicious. She suspected her ex so I followed him for awhile too, but… I shrugged. Nothing.

There was a commotion in the doorway. A tanned man in a khaki safari shirt and shorts came in. He walked up to the two of us and said, Got away clean.

Flemming nodded, Okay.

The man was of average size, trim and had a weathered face the color of rawhide with enough lines to make a road map for North America. A patch on his shoulder read Orange County Big Cat Rescue.

I extended my hand and said, Bone Ramsey, private investigator.

Pete Wright, cat trapper, said the man. This one really takes the cake. I’ve never seen any cat behave like this.

How do you mean? I asked.

It had to travel miles to get here from any wilderness area. It avoided detection until it got here. Then it entered a place of human habitation. He paused and leaned forward for effect. Something they never do! Then it avoided being seen by any people here except for Miss Wallace. It killed her quickly and cleanly and then left.

My eyes went to the bloody scene. Quickly and cleanly? I said, trying to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

Usually a cat like this only kills for food, and consumes what it kills. Its natural prey is deer and other small animals. This one killed a human and then fled. Wright stopped and ran a hand through his unruly thatch of gray hair. It’s almost as if this cat was targeting one person. Miss Wallace. When the deed was done, he left.

Cats like this never kill people? I asked.

They do, said Wright, but only in self defense or in defense of offspring.

Flemming cleared his throat and said, Wait a minute, Bone. You said earlier that you thought she was paranoid, but now your not so sure. Do you actually think someone killed her using a Florida panther?

Yeh? questioned Wright. Who would that be? Siegfried and Roy?

Are you saying, I shot back, these cats can’t be trained?

Well, yeh. They can be trained to jump and do a few things, but you could never train one as a hit man. A cat is half intelligence and half instinct. It is born with this gift for being cunning. That’s how it survives by hunting and stalking. But how would you go about aiming it like a weapon at a certain individual? I’m telling you it can’t be done.

What if you showered somebody with pheromones or something? offered Flemming.

This seemed to enrage Wright. I don’t know of anything that would make a cat travel a hundred miles and kill somebody and then split! Do you?

No. You’re the expert, he said apologetically.

I decided this might be a good time to throw a new wrinkle into things. I pulled an envelope out of my jacket and handed it to Flemming.

What’s this? he asked.

Becky Wallace received that in the mail two weeks ago.

Inside the envelope was a single sheet of paper. On it was a crude line drawing in ink of a leaping cat and an hour glass symbol on top of a ball bracketed by two lines. What do you think it means?

I don’t know, I said. That first symbol could be a panther.

Wright took the piece of paper and said, I think that second one is an Indian symbol. It means death.

You should have had this checked for prints, Bone! said Flemming.

I did. A friend at OPD ran it and the only prints on it were Becky’s. Whoever sent this was very careful. Self adhesive stamp and self sealing envelope. No DNA, no nothing. It was mailed from Miami.

We were all quiet for a time, thinking.

So, I think someone wanted Becky Wallace dead, I said.

And, said Flemming, pulling on his ear. Unless he had a crystal ball, he figured out how to use a panther to do it.

Wright said nothing. He simply stared at Fleming, the disbelief obvious on his face.

Can I keep this? asked Flemming.

Sure. I don’t need it, I said. I’d made a copy of it, but I didn’t really think it was going to be any use to their investigation anyway.

I’m going to need a statement from you.

I’ll give you one. Got a card?

Flemming dug a card out of his pocket and handed it to me.

On the way home I thought about it. I had seen big cats do tricks in wild animal shows, lions and tigers. But they mostly just jumped from one stool to another or leaped through hoops of fire. How would you get one to kill for you? And not just anybody, but a particular person? If the big cat guy didn’t know, then I didn’t know either.

Oh well, it was not my investigation. I had other things to worry about. Like keeping the lights turned on. My business was not earning a lot. I had only had one client in the last two months, besides Becky. A cheating husband case. But I got a gig in a club downtown called Jazz Street. I am head of security there. A bouncer actually, but I get a check on a regular basis. I also got an inquiry about my body guard services.

It was about time for me to go to the club and start my shift, so I headed for the Orlando night life. Orlando never used to have any kind of night life, but after the huge theme parks; Disney, Universal, Legoland, Gatorland, Sea World, Animal Kingdom, and after the explosion of tourists from all over the world, the place has had a surge of new clubs. We have blues based clubs, disco type clubs, and there’s themed clubs like Trader Jack’s, the Golden Tiki, Texas Kate’s. And of course we have the crime associated with all that stuff, drugs, prostitution, street violence and gangs. OPD has their hands full some nights.

I aimed my Dodge Charger down International Drive. It was a broad boulevard bounded by sabal palms and a hodge podge of pastel restaurants and shops festooned with gaudy neon signs designed to catch the attention of tourists. There were themed hotels: pirates, Nickelodeon, country western, you name it. Small groups of heavy people dressed in loud polyester shorts, tee shirts and flip flops, some dragging children, paraded down the sidewalks. This was a Florida resort trying to be Vegas. It had everything but the slot machines. I pulled into the Jazz Street club parking lot. It was a false brick two story building sandwiched in between the Sea Shell Museum and an Olive Garden. Crazy, huh?

There was a floodlit white marble fountain in the parking lot featuring a cupid pouring water from a vase. The owner thought it gave the place some class. It used to be a naked nymph but the Orlando city fathers made the owner remove the nymph. After all, this was supposed to be a family place. The club had no windows that faced the parking lot on the ground floor. There were two large glass doors under a blue and white awning with a large blue neon trumpet overhead surrounded by notes and the words Jazz Street.

Inside the decor was Great Gatsby. There was a Gatsbyesque greeter at the door complete with double breasted suit, fedora and white spats. The walls were decorated with trombones, trumpets, saxophones and brass goose horns of the type that used to adorn old Duesenbergs and an antique-looking clock made of many layered glass facets. There were framed pictures of Bonnie and Clyde, Thompson submachine guns and old Packards. The floor held art deco tables and chairs made out of sweeping streamlined curves of maple. The waitresses were all dressed like 1930’s flappers and the bartenders were wearing white shirts, red vests and black bow ties. This place, like everything else here, was designed to attract tourists.

When I walked in, the jazz quartet was up on stage getting warmed up. The place was about a third full, which was pretty good for a Thursday night. I saw Lou behind the bar and a few of the regulars. I started to walk to the back office and then I saw Tommy. He’s a beefy kid who means well, but not the sharpest knife in the drawer, ya know? He was hoisting some older gentlemen under the armpits and dragging him to the door.

Tommy, I said. What’s up?

Oh, Hi Bone!, said Tommy. His face was flushed with the effort of