Vera wayward Blackwoods's Arc

Chapter 2 of 2

The scout was gone, but Friday was not. Vera stood at the leopard fence and did the math. Four days. One animal loose from the north enclosure. No collar, no tracker, no idea where it had gone. If the scout drove up on Wednesday and saw a shape crossing the path, her recommendation was finished. She needed eyes on it before he did. She walked the north fence line first. The break was a bent panel behind the feed shed, low enough that something short and heavy had shouldered through. No blood. No fur she could use. She crouched and pressed her palm to the dirt. Cold. Whatever left had left hours ago. She tried the obvious things. She checked the drainage culvert. She checked the compost bay. She checked under the deck of the restroom building, where the lanterns leaked warm light onto the stones and something small could curl up unseen. Nothing looked back at her. She stood up with wet knees and no plan. The binturong's empty cage sat down the path, gate still latched from the inside where he had figured out the trick again. The educational sign smiled at her with its painted faces. Tree-dwelling. Fruit. Small animals. She had read it a hundred times. She read it again because she was stalling. Then she smelled popcorn. Not from the cafe. The cafe was closed on Tuesdays. The smell came from the far end of the path, where the old machine sat under its iron canopy, unplugged for a year. She followed her nose. The binturong was hanging off the side of the machine. He had one paw hooked through the frame and his face pressed to the glass. Inside the kettle, someone had run it recently. Fresh kernels sat in the tray. Vera looked at the ground. A trash can lay tipped beside the machine. Cans, wrappers, a crushed popcorn bag from the vendor stall, all spilled across the path. And in the soft dirt beside the heap, a track. Not the binturong's. Wider. Splayed toes. Claws. Her escaped animal had come here first. It had knocked the bin over eating trash. The popcorn smell had pulled the binturong down from wherever he sulked. Two problems, one scent trail. Vera pulled her radio. "I need you at the old popper. Bring the carrier and a net pole. He's here. And I've got a print." She crouched by the track and measured it against her hand. The binturong watched her from the machine, unbothered, chewing something he had already stolen. She did not have a tracker. She had a nose that worked from thirty feet and a weakness she could bait. By Friday, the scout would see a locked cage and a closed north enclosure. She had four days and a lure that walked itself to the trap.