Free Claws by Ozzie Cheek

money.
    Katy tossed down the paperwork and absently stared at the television where a Denver news program droned softly in the background, the modern way of combating loneliness. Suddenly, the image switched from a pair of doll-people behind a desk to a dead tiger with people gathered around it. A scroll along the bottom read Buckhorn, Idaho . Katy grabbed the remote and hurriedly increased the sound. According to a female reporter at the site, an escaped tiger had been shot and killed by local policemen and a man identified as a bank president. The bank president, even in a brief soundbite, came off as a blow-hard.
    Another man, dressed more like a rancher than a policeman, thought Katy, was identified as the Chief of Police. He answered the reporter’s questions but used fewwords to do so. When he was asked if the dead tiger had escaped from Safari Land, the police chief admitted that he didn’t know where the animal came from. In answer to the reporter’s next question, the policeman said, “No, I can’t say for certain that it’s the only big cat out there.”
    “What?” Katy said aloud, her eyes glued to the screen.
    “So there might be another tiger?” the reporter asked.
    “I don’t know,” the policeman said.
    “Chief Hobbs, if we’re not talking about a tiger, then what? Do we have a lion running loose here too?” The reporter managed to sound genuinely concerned.
    “Well, what’s the biggest cat in the world?” the Buckhorn police chief said. “That’s what might be out there still yet.”
    A while later Katy was about to drift off to sleep when she sat up and turned on the light. She was wide-awake now. No way, she told herself. A liger? No way.

Nine
    Angie Kuka awakened at dawn and for a moment thought she was home. But the sounds and smells were different: a leaky toilet, the scent of incense burned. In slow motion she rolled out of bed and tiptoed to where her uniform hung on the back of the door. Underwear, gun, handcuffs, makeup bag, nightstick, bra, equipment belt, all were stuffed in a duffle bag that said Bank of Buckhorn. Dell Tapper’s bank had given them as Christmas gifts one year.
    “Hey you,” Sharon said, while gazing at Angie’s soft curves. Angie’s skin was naturally tan. Her eyes were dark brown and long-lashed and her black hair cut short to frame high cheekbones and full lips. But despite Angie’s feminine looks, Sharon knew she was capable of wrestling most males to the ground. She even had seen her do it once. Sharon was getting aroused watching her, but Angie wasn’t much for morning romance. “I’ll get up,” Sharon said feebly. She loved to sleep in. Weekdays, she had to be dressed and at school teaching history before her body was even fully awake. “I can make some coffee.”

    “Stay in bed. I gotta go meet the boss.”
    Sharon rolled over to face the wall where her Shambhala meditation banner hung. “You coming back anytime soon?”
    Twenty minutes later Angie tossed her gym bag, now filled with last night’s clothing, in the trunk of her Subaru Outback. Her car was parked two blocks from Sharon’s bungalow outside a male teacher’s house. He was a friend of Sharon’s. Even so, staying overnight was dangerous. Angie knew that she might survive as a lesbian cop in Idaho, if she could handle the abuse, but Sharon, a high school teacher and sponsor of the cheerleading squad of teenage girls, would be out of a job. Sharon’s name made her life hard enough. What parent with the last name Tate would name their baby girl Sharon? Sharon had told her that even kids who thought 1776 was the Civil War era knew about Charles Manson and Helter Skelter .
    Jackson was nursing his coffee and re-reading Pamela’s research when Angie reached the Split-Rail Cafe. “Thanks for coming in so early,” Jackson said as she slid into the booth opposite him. Angie wore a blue uniform; Jackson had on black jeans and a blue-black plaid shirt. “You get it?”
    “If I did,