Titles by James Paddock
Smilodon (Book 1)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Sabre City (Book 2)
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Epilogue
The Last Sabre (Book 3)
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Thank You...
About the author
Titles by James Paddock
Novels
CJ Washburn Mysteries
Deserving of Death
Sailing into Death
Time-Travel
Before Anne After (Book 1)
Time Will Tell (Book 2)
Sabre-Toothed Cat Suspense
Smilodon (Book 1)
Sabre City (Book 2)
The Last Sabre (Book 3)
Other Suspense
Lost & Forgotten
Elkhorn Mountain Menace
(Previously titled Angels in the Mist)
Novella
Hot Roast Beef with Mustard
Anthology
No Swimming
Connect with James Paddock Online
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/DesertBookshelf
Twitter: http://twitter.com/jameswriter/
Blog: http://www.desertbookshelf.com/blog/
Smilodon (Book 1)
The Sabre-Toothed Cat Trilogy
By
James Paddock
Published by Desert Bookshelf Publishing
Copyright © 2011 by James R. Paddock
Cover photo and art by James R. Paddock
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.
This book was printed in the United States of America.
To order additional copies of this book contact:
Desert Bookshelf Publishing
www.desertbookshelf.com
Chapter 1
Death occurs as decreed by the cats.
—from the journals of Zechariah Price
I hate the aisle seat.
I glance across the front of my temporary travel companions to look out at the sprawling hub of Seattle-Tacoma International Airport in the distance. We are sitting and waiting for something. I consider bribing the five-year old in the window seat except her mother is sitting between us.
“The Man Eaters of Sundarbans?” the mother suddenly says. “Not a very appetizing read.”
I pull the top book aside to reveal the other two in my lap. “Actually, I’m researching.”
“The Bengal Tiger and Biography of a Bengal Tiger,” she says. “You�
�re a writer?”
She is pleasantly surprised. I know because I have an ability to read some people’s emotions, a rare talent. It’s like reading their aura, only one step better. What I get mentally are visions, impressions of their emotional history and a sense of what they are thinking. It’s different with every person. With her I only get immediate feelings; no history and no visions. A mind reader you think. Not exactly, but close.
Her aura is beautiful. It reminds me a lot of my wife’s and daughters’.
“I’m Karen,” she says, presenting her hand.
“Zach,” I return.
“Sweetheart,” she says to her daughter, “this man is a writer.” The girl leans forward and looks at me, a red crayon propped daintily in her hand. An aura matching the woman’s comes with her. What the heck is a writer? I am sure those big brown eyes are saying. She looks up at her mother and then sits back.
“So what kind of writing do you do? Are you researching a novel or an article for a magazine?”
I look at the person I’ll have as my companion from here to Spokane and feel a bit embarrassed having to say, “I don’t know.”
“Oh.” She turns to talk to her daughter. Her emotions flatten out. I assume the conversation is over so I open to the first few pages of Spell of the Tiger from which came the subtitle, The Man-Eaters of Sundarbans. “In India,” Sy Montgomery writes, “the tiger is the God’s vahana, an Indian word for vehicle. The tiger is a vahana of the Gods; is permeated with the God’s force and power, imbued with the essence of the God itself.” I underline the names of the Gods: Jolishmatic, Aurkah, Shukra, Shiva. Shukra is the Priest of Demons. I underline that twice.
I write in the margin, "Powers beyond any worldly animals. The Man-Eater."
I underline Royal Bengal tiger, Indo-Chinese tiger, Sumatran tiger, Bali tiger, Caspian tiger, Javan tiger and Siberian tiger.
The introduction refers to a Time magazine article from 1994. I make a note to look that up and then close the book and wonder if this, although very interesting and great material for a story, has anything to do with my assignment, this job I accepted out of the blue. I think about the call I received just three days ago.
“Mister Price?”
The caller’s greeting immediately felt like someone trying to sell me something or wanting payment for something I’d already bought. I was already regretting that I didn’t let the machine take the call.
“This is Zechariah Price. What can I do for you?” My defensive hackles were standing up.
“Actually, Mister Price, it’s what we can do for each other. My company wishes to hire your services.”
“You need a free-lance writer?”
“Exactly, Mister Price. You come highly recommended.”
I asked him about his company.
“Sans Sanssabre, Inc. We are a research company, Mister Price. I am Lance Evans, Vice President of Publicity and Documentation. We need a writer. Our field of research is genetics. We are too close to our work. We need someone with an outside eye, someone who can, without prejudice, observe and record, and then put the story together so the layman can not only understand it, but would stand in line to read it.”
“Sounds like you need Stephen King.” I don’t know why I said that. I wasn’t in a position to turn down any offer. Things haven’t been exactly lucrative.
“Actually, his name was brought up. However, we wanted someone not so well known.”
He certainly called the right guy there. “What kind of pay are we talking, and what part of the world will I be traveling to?”
“I assure you, the pay will be generous. We are located in Montana. Sorry, not as glamorous as you might have been hoping. Someone will be knocking on your door shortly, within the hour actually. He’ll have a contract with him for you to read and sign. It will have all the details. Attached will be a phone number for you to call once you’ve read it. Please don’t ask questions of the person making the delivery. He is but a courier.”
It wasn’t five minutes after hanging up that a man with Bay Area Courier Service stenciled on his shirt showed up at my door and presented me with a large white envelope. He said he was instructed to wait for my signature on an internal document. I opened the envelope and found two business-size envelopes, another large envelope and two professionally bound documents with a blue sticky note attached. The note read,
Mr. Price,
Please sign this one and return it to the courier in the envelope provided. The other is yours. Also you will find airline tickets and an advance to help you take care of personal needs before you depart. Please call me at the number below as soon as you have read the contract.
Lance
“. . . wants to know if you wrote her book.”
I become aware that Karen is talking to me. “Pardon?” I say.
“I’m sorry. Didn’t realize.”
I look at the open book in my lap. “No, no. That’s fine. You were saying?”
“My daughter, Melissa, wants to know if you are the author of her book.”
Melissa leans forward in her seat and holds out a book. A familiar looking character with a tall hat garnishes the cover. Her mother’s aura may have lost some of its color, but Melissa’s is still glowing, full of innocence and joy. I sense some hidden reason for her happiness that is not associated with a cool plane ride. Also, as with her mother, I get no vision.
I lift my eyebrows at Melissa and her book and begin reciting from memory. “I would not, could not, in the rain. Not in the dark. Not on a train. Not in a car. Not in a tree.”
She giggles and looks up at her mom who looks back at her in exaggerated surprise.
“I do not like them, Sam, you see. Not in a house. Not in a box. Not with a mouse. Not with a fox. I will not eat them here or there. I do not like them anywhere!”
Melissa opens her book, looks at the words and grins up at me with big, delightful eyes. I debate telling her I’m not Dr. Seuss, but why destroy the magic moment for her. She reads, “You do not like green eggs and ham?”
“I do not like them, Sam-I-Am.”
“Could you, would you, with a goat?” With each word her voice rises.
“I would not, could not, with a goat!”
Our dialogue across the front of Melissa’s mom ends when we are thrown back in our seats. We race down the runway until the aircraft lifts from the ground. When the wheels are sucked into the belly with a bump, Melissa’s eyes open with shock. Karen leans over to tell her what it was while I close my book and return all three to my briefcase resting at my feet. So much for research. Sam-I-Am has pulled up some fine memories. . . and some old hurts.
“You must have children, Mister Price,” Karen says. Melissa is busy watching the lights of the city as we bank around and head over the mountains, in route to Spokane. I get a glimpse of a glow in the Eastern sky.
“Yes, I do. Both girls. Ages six and eight. I think I could recite all of Green Eggs and Ham in my sleep.”
“You must be a great dad.”
I swallow the memories. “I don’t know about that. Haven’t seen them in over a year. They live with their mother in Dallas.”
“I’m sorry,” she says.
With that the conversation stops. This time her aura turns dark and I see rolling, boiling clouds running through it. Of course, who would want to talk to a man who has allowed his family to fall apart? What kind of influence would the monster have on her little girl? Maybe it’s catching. It does seem as though she has scooted as far away from me as she can.
I pull my briefcase onto my lap and look through the various compartments. In addition to the lap top computer and the three books about Bengal tigers, there’s a novel I’ve been trying to read, plus notes on the novel I have been trying to write. In addition, there is my journal, a notebook of blank paper, a thesaurus and dictionary, toothbrush and shaving kit, envelopes, stamps and note-paper for writing to Christi and Rebecca, and of course the contract. The briefcase is one of th
ose soft ones that can be over stuffed. I couldn’t get it completely under my seat but the flight attendant didn’t seem to notice.
I extract the journal and start recording:
March 22 — Green Eggs and Ham.
Exchange with Melissa, about five years old, expressive brown eyes, smooth, round cheeks, perky nose and chin, small mouth, nice smile. Don’t think her blond hair has been cut since she was born. Dainty fingers, which she uses with precision, pointing to words as she reads them. Excellent reader for her age, or she has the words memorized. Her voice is soft as freshly fallen rose petals. I catch her looking at me. She doesn’t look away but turns the corners of her mouth into a smile. I return same and wink at her. She grins and sits back in her seat, pulling several Dr. Seuss books onto her lap. Her legs stick out beyond the book; pink socks neatly folded down one time disappear inside purple running shoes that say Nike on the side. Purple laces are neatly tied.
Melissa’s escort is a most beautiful and mature, not quite blond, copy of herself. Karen is her name. Her hair is secured in a French braid. Piano fingers. Same perky nose, softer chin, sparkling eyes which went dark with my mention of my separated family.
I close the journal and then my eyes and let the time pass in the darkness of my memories.
I awake to a flight attendant touching my shoulder. “Would you care for a snack, Sir?”
“Just orange juice, please.” Items get passed across. Karen settles for coffee and the dry cracker snack. Melissa decides on orange juice, with her mother’s insistence, and gets a toy in a plastic wrapper.
“Thank you!” she says to the attendant, and then looks at me. She grins and winks. I’m being flirted with by a young lady nearly twenty-five years younger than me. My heart melts. I raise my eyebrows and make a funny face. She copycats me. We spend the next minute or so trying to out funny-face each other.
Karen intercedes. “Enough you guys. I’m going to drown in ugly faces.” Her color is back to normal. Melissa and I both look at her, and then at each other. She giggles and we start making faces at her mother. “Drink your orange juice,” Karen says, unsuccessfully faking a stern voice.
“Yes Ma’am,” I say and sip my juice as daintily as I can, sticking out my little finger. Melissa follows suit, using both hands and sticking out both pinkies. I give her a thumbs up.
We settle into quiet for a while, and then Karen asks, “Do you miss them, your girls?”
“Does a beached whale miss the water?”
She considers my comment for a time. “What would cause this whale to become beached?”