Spotted Cats Read Online Free

had been gifts from a grateful Mayan Indian Chief to Jeff Newton, then an apprentice professional hunter, who had slain the cat that had eaten away the face and throat of the chief’s eldest son while he was urinating against a tree in the jungle. The gold jaguars had lived with the old patriarch’s tribe for uncounted generations. The tribesmen worshipped them, as they worshipped the living cats themselves. They were the ultimate reward for the man who had avenged the death of the heir to the tribal throne.
    Although they were freely given to him, technically the jaguars did not belong to Jeff. They belonged to the government of Mexico. No pre-Columbian artifacts could legally leave the country after 1971. The United States government supported the Mexican law.
    Jeff Newton didn’t care. He didn’t care what those jaguars were worth, and he didn’t care about the Mexican law. Had he wanted to sell them, he would’ve had a problem. But he didn’t intend to sell them. Jeff, I knew, loved those seven golden jaguars perhaps as much as he loved his dogs. Probably more than he loved any human being.
    Dan LaBreque did care. He called Jeff a thief. Insofar as a law was being violated, I cared, too. But there wasn’t anything either of us could do about it.
    Lily tugged at my arm. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘The great hunter is waiting. He heard the bell. He’ll be wondering what we’re up to.’
    She led me through double glass doors on to the field-stone patio behind the house. Thomas Jefferson Newton lay on a chaise longue facing off to the east, his back to me. His thinning white hair grew close to his scalp. Pale urine-yellow streaks stained it. The back of his neck was thin. The two cords stood out in sharp relief. Even in the muggy Cape Cod summer heat, he had a blanket spread over his legs. His crutch was propped on the wrought-iron table beside him. The promised pitcher of martinis and two glasses sat on the table.
    I turned to Lily and arched my brows at her.
    ‘Go ahead,’ she said softly. ‘I got some things to do in the kitchen.’
    I shrugged and stepped out on to the terrace.
    ‘Jeff,’ I said.
    He waved his hand without turning around. ‘Come sit down, Brady,’ he said.
    I went over and perched on the edge of the chair beside his chaise. He turned his head slowly and peered at me through watery blue eyes. I was startled at his appearance. I had seen him dozens of times since he got out of the hospital six years earlier, but I still remembered him as the dark, powerful man who had gone to Africa. He was, I knew, barely fifty. He looked twenty years older. His skin glowed with the papery translucence of old age. It was patched with pink blotches as if disease was showing itself, except along the three parallel scars that began in front of his left ear and angled across his cheek, through his lips, and across his chin. The scars shone stark white.
    He reached towards me. ‘Shitty weather,’ he said.
    I squeezed his bony hand. ‘Summer on the Cape,’ I said. ‘It’s what you get.’
    ‘Traffic bad?’
    ‘As always. Route 3 was backed up to Marshfield.’
    ‘Cape’s going to hell,’ he said. ‘Just like the rest of the world. Pour us a martini. And fill the damn glass all the way up. Lily doesn’t know how to fill a glass with a martini.’
    I poured from the pitcher into the glasses and handed one to Jeff. He took it and brought it to his lips. I noticed that his hand trembled, and when he sipped, some of the drink dribbled from the corner of his mouth. He swallowed, cleared his throat, and took another, longer swallow.
    He cocked his head and narrowed his eyes to look at me. ‘You gaining weight?’ he said.
    I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I never bother weighing myself.’
    ‘Fatter in the jowls,’ he said.
    ‘Thanks.’ I lit a cigarette.
    ‘Those things’ll kill you.
    ‘Something’s got to,’ I said.
    ‘Stupid habit.’
    I nodded and sipped my martini. ‘How are you feeling,