Cat in an Alien X_Ray

by Carole Nelson Douglas

  “Why did you really come here?” Matt was asking. “It wasn’t for us. What did you want from Max, because you will never get it now, whether he’s dead or alive. You can kill everyone you ever thought took something from you because they tried to have a good life, and then what will you do? You destroy your oldest enemy, you’re alone.”

  A fifth black shadow from the hall took a hard right turn and walked right between Matt and Temple and Kitty the Cutter. Midnight Louie sat right down in front of her and stared straight up at her, as if expecting a treat.

  He got it sooner than expected as a gunshot exploded in the room … just as Max’s hand shot out from the floor and jerked Kathleen’s ankle out from under her … as Matt pushed Temple behind him and rushed the falling woman, grabbing her flailing wrist … as Midnight Louie leaped for the gun-toting hand and sank his one-inch fangs into it … as the cat on the chair arm leaped straight for Kathleen’s face with a Viking battle cry, and as the other three cats pooled on the floor around Kathleen, attacking anything black spandex or white flesh they could claim.

  Matt grunted and fell back in front of Temple. She had gone down on her knees beside him before he had completely landed.

  “Matt, my God! Matt! Did she shoot you?”

  Temple heard another curdling scream and looked up to see Midnight Louie leaping at the half-fallen Kathleen and leaving four deep claw marks across her ivory-white cheek.

  Max was crawling across the floor, one hand slamming the gun it held down like a peg leg as he came, blood pouring down his determined face. “Where?” he demanded.

  Matt had fallen back, one hand waving over his chest, searching a source for the pain. Blood blossomed when he pressed the shirt down over his left side. Temple was using her cell phone to call 911.

  Max hefted himself up on his hands and leaned over Matt. “Left side.”

  “The heart,” Temple gasped.

  “Way down.” Max shook his head and shed blood drops like a wet dog. “Sweet spot. Okay.” He patted Matt’s arm and rolled over on his back beside him.

  “Max?” Temple asked through the shakes and her soundless tears.

  “Too hardheaded to kill.”

  Sirens were already screaming in the distance.

  Temple looked up. The cats were gone, and so was Kitty the Cutter, only some spots of blood on the hardwood floor showing where she’d been.

  Chapter 52

  Astral Protection

  The sirens of the ambulances and cop cars have faded for good.

  The front door is shut, the neighborhood peaceful again.

  A sliver of light halos the rooftops.

  Dawn is on the way but the streetlamps are still lit.

  It is the magic time between dusk and dawn, night and day, hunting and resting from the hunt.

  One by one, the Cat Pack reassembles on the front doorstep.

  I was first to arrive, and am tending my right mitt, where several nail sheaths have been yanked out untimely. Miss Kitty the Cutter will bear my brand for life.

  “Quite a right cross, Pops.” Midnight Louise has sat down beside me.

  “Not bad boxing,” says Ma Barker, coming up on the other side, “for a domestic layabout.”

  “I keep telling you, Ma, I am no domestic slave, but a roommate with rights to come and go as I please.”

  “Your roommate is lucky to have you,” adds Blackula, who has reappeared too. “But did we not do good? Pitch and I, we slip into that risky joint like Persians fresh from fancy manicure jobs at the groomer’s.”

  “Yeah,” says Pitch, “we were like pitty-pat—whatchamacallit?—ballerinas.”

  “Not that fancy,” Blackula growls.

  It is the usual after-rumble mumble-grumble among the guys. Ma gives me a parting cuff. Among the guys, and gals.

  I amble to the curb where the Jaguar was parked. Miss Temple drove it along after the ambulances. Very gingerly.

  The EMT people were swift, efficient, and talked loud enough to overhear.

  Mr. Matt was all right. The bullet entered and exited side tissue. Mr. Matt will be fine. Mr. Max is going into observation to ensure he will be fine. I must hurry home to comfort Miss Temple when she finally gets back there.

  I am proud that we guys did not allow one hair on her head to be harmed through our conjoined efforts. I am also pleased that the Cat Pack under the direction of Midnight Investigations, Inc., played such a key role in the view of all concerned, especially Miss Kitty the Cutter. Shudder. It is ironic that she bears a nickname that falsely connects her with us of the superior breed. I am hoping if there are little gray men out there somewhere, they will abduct her to another solar system.

  Maybe the humans could have handled it without us, but we added a nice note of distraction, not to mention drama.

  I look back to see Ma Barker and her Cat Pack members and Miss Midnight Louise have vanished to make their secret ways home, as I should be doing.

  Something strange shimmers in the fading oval of illumination the nearest streetlight casts on the pavement. I amble toward the phenomenon, hoping it is not extraterrestrial. I have had my ration of otherworldly visitors. I grow alarmed to see a familiar shape becoming clearer with every step.

  “Greetings, Louie,” says Karma. Her blue eyes and pale golden coat and white feet seem almost translucent in the waning light.

  “What are you doing here? You are a recluse. You never leave the penthouse atop the Circle Ritz, like the snobby Sacred Cat of Burma you claim to be.”

  “Who do you think drew Blackula and Pitch to the scene? Who do you believe coordinated the ancient Five-Cat Surround-and-Overwhelm strategy my breed used for hundreds of years to protect the temple priests of the mountains of Burma?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard the legend that the Birman’s coat coloring went from white to golden overnight after raiders killed an old temple priest, but the toes of their feet kept the pure white of his soul, and they also got the goddess’s sapphire blue eyes. It is actually quite a tale. I helped an ex-priest survive here tonight, but I do not expect to get white tippytoes out of it, and am glad. That would be a real cleaning problem for a street cat like me.”

  Karma sighs. I have never heard a cat sigh like a dog so much. Her eyes grow as sharply blue as Miss Lieutenant Molina’s when she is on the warpath.

  “The legends ends,” she intones, “‘Woe to he who brings the end to one of these marvelous beasts, even if he didn’t mean to. He will surely suffer the most cruel torments until the soul he upset has been appeased.’”

  “That’s pretty definite, but I have no intention of ending anything about you besides this conversation.”

  “Why do you resist the mystical side of life, Louie? Perhaps you do not realize what my breed has survived. Only two Birman cats were alive in Europe at the end of World War Two, Orloff and Xenia.”

  “Manx, there must be a lot of cruelly suffering souls for that. News to me, but it definitely sounds like your breed lucked out, since Xenia is obviously a foxy lady and Orloff is definitely a boy’s name.”

  She nods graciously. “So our breed has been reborn to thrive and be prized, in the process acquiring a certain mystical cachet.”

  “Yeah, my people and me are all after a hidden cache ourselves.”

  Karma sighs and dabs a white glove over one ear, as if my words are too, too lowly to penetrate that precious orifice. “The wisdom of catkind is lost on you, Louie, but after the stresses of this night wear off, you may thank me at my customary shrine.”

  I would have said, “Well, la-ti-dah to you too,” except that I realize Karma is fading with the lamplight into a mere hint of gold body and white toes, with the blue peepers still bold and beautiful.

  “You are addressing my astral projection, poor boy, and if you wish to keep displaying your ignorance, you may do so in person when you return home.”

  And out the baby blues go, leaving me talking to myself on a deserted sidewalk as signs of suburban life stir all a
round me, from front doors opening to collect newspapers, to dogs being let out to water the grass and bark, to garage doors starting to grumble open.

  Speaking of grumbling, that is how I leave the deserted scene of our mass clawdown with Kathleen O’Connor, wishing all a speedy recovery and good karma. As for Kitty the Cutdown, I hope the bedbugs get her.

  Chapter 53

  Two Close for Comfort

  Matt dreamed he was swimming in an infinity pool that wasn’t an optical illusion, but a river of water that went on and on forever, a lane of illuminated artificially turquoise water, his exact body temperature.

  But his head wasn’t turning from side to side to breathe, and something was biting at his side, a grim, slim fish. Barracuda.

  He surfaced, blinking water out of his eyes, feeling the dozens of teeth still stinging, yet the sensation was blurring into an ache rather than a sharp pain.

  “That was some sleeping pill,” a familiar voice to his left said.

  Matt turned his head in the water and saw a bizarre face. The man wore a helmet of bound gauze, like a mummy. His head was propped on one elbow. High and dry. In bed.

  Matt realized his swim trunks were some sort of … apron?… wrapping him, and he was in a bed too.

  “We have to stop meeting like this,” Max Kinsella said. “Love the concentric circles on the gown, though. Mine has little dancing triangles on it.”

  Matt struggled to sit up, but stopped when the pain in his side intensified. He remembered the sound of a firecracker exploding somewhere on his torso. Oh, yeah. Shot.

  “Hospital?” he asked Kinsella.

  “Just for observation, but your repair job was a bit longer and rougher than mine.”

  “When is it?” Matt asked.

  “About seven P.M. of the day after the night before.”

  “Temple’s all right?”

  Kinsella hesitated.

  “She’s all right?” Matt had to know right now.

  “Better than us, physically. A wee bit agitated otherwise.”

  “You’ve seen her?”

  “She flew by to soothe your sleeping brow and leave this.” Max elevated a couple pieces of typing paper.

  Matt couldn’t focus for a few fuzzy seconds. Max’s long, muscled freakishly bare left arm handed the paper across the chasm between the beds.

  “They put us in the same room?” Matt asked, finding the fact irritating.

  Kinsella nodded to a curtain on his left. “The same ward. We have a ruptured appendix and bleeding ulcer down the line.”

  Matt found himself still frowning. “What are these papers?”

  “Printout of a digital story on the Vegas newspaper site. It won’t hit print until tomorrow. You’ll want to study your lines.”

  “My lines?”

  “Just read it. I predict you and Temple will set a wedding date pronto.”

  “What?” Matt, still woozy, realized the bandages made it look like Kinsella had an inverted white cereal bowl on his head. Ludicrous. He bit his lip to smother a grin. “And what happened to you?”

  “I had a gun-butt contusion—a love tap from Kathleen—a bit bigger than a quarter on the back of my temple. They decided they had to shave off a section of hair the size of a grapefruit in order to slap a few stitches and some iodine on it.”

  “The Mystifying Max without half his mane? Excuse me for finding that funny.”

  Kinsella nodded at Matt’s sheet-swaddled torso. “You now have matching scars from Kitty the Cutter, left and right. I guess we could say you’re well balanced.”

  Matt shrugged and noticed something over Kinsella’s hospital-gowned shoulder. Something as red as blood.

  “Roses?”

  “Wild Irish roses, thorns not removed.” Kinsella made a wry face. “Many condolences to you. It looks like I’ve successfully diverted Kathleen’s attentions back to me. The card is signed with crimson nail enamel, ‘Forever.’”

  “Man, I wouldn’t wish that woman’s attentions on a serial killer.”

  “Maybe you’ve softened her up some.”

  Matt shook his head, and then was sorry for jolting it. “Doubt it. I did get down to the first stratum of her psychosis. I think she hates you for getting there first.”

  “Figures.” Kinsella had always been calm about things that would drive Matt crazy.

  “How’d she get the drop on you before we arrived?” Matt wondered.

  “Embarrassing. Still some cotton wool between my ears from the amnesia, I guess. Slowed my reaction time. Speaking of embarrassing, you’d better read that stuff.”

  Matt shifted and spotted a whole line of floral offerings on the narrow ledge of his window. “It’s been too short a time for flowers—”

  “Oh, word got out fast on the Temple Barr Telegraph, and Teleflora.… Read ’em and weep.” Kinsella nodded again at the papers.

  Before Matt could do either task—read or weep—a nurse in scrubs covered with colorful teddy bears whisked around the corner bearing two identical and stunning floral arrangements of purple irises and yellow tulips.

  “More for you, Mr. Kinsella,” she chirruped, “and for Mr. Devine.”

  When Matt eyed her inquiringly, she caroled out the name of the donor so the whole ward could hear. “From Tony Valentine. Lovely surname.”

  She was gone and Matt was scratching his head, which he could do, because it wasn’t swathed with a ridiculous hat of gauze.

  “That’s my agent,” he told Kinsella. “Why’s he sending you flowers?”

  “I told you. Read the story. Temple said it was the best she could do on instant notice.”

  “What would Temple have to do with it—?” His glance fell on the larger-type headline on the pages. GOSSIP-A-GO-GO. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, yes. She had to explain the assault scene not only to the police but the media. She’s the mistress of spin, no doubt about it. We’ll have a hard time living up to her inspired improvisation.”

  Matt pushed himself up against the pillows, winced and sighed simultaneously, and began to read. “Oh my God!” He glanced at Max. “That wasn’t swearing; it was a religious ejaculation.”

  “Good thing I’m familiar with Catholic terminology, or I’d have taken your explanation for something else.”

  “Enough with the jokes, Kinsella. Did you see what this two-bit entertainment columnist is saying?”

  “All too clearly.”

  “Good grief.” Matt began reading snippets aloud in disbelief. “‘Attempted robbery at semi-retired magician’s house reveals an intriguing new entertainment deal in the works. Is the “hot new couple” in town Max Kinsella, aka the Mystifying Max, and syndicated radio shrink Matt Devine? What kind of act could they dream up? Magic and mind-reading? Sounds promising. These two local celebrities are a reverse Siegfried and Roy, with the brunet of the duo lean and mean and the blond warm and fuzzy.’”

  “Gag,” Matt said, for the first and hopefully last time in his life.

  “Swearing for real is far more satisfying than sounding like a teenager,” Kinsella said.

  “Shut up. ‘The Odd Coupling—’ No!”

  “Yes. It gets worse.”

  “‘… could have betrayed a big secret on the showbiz front. According to well-known publicist Temple Barr, who reps both men, Matt Devine suffered a flesh wound when caught in the crossfire after a robber broke into Kinsella’s Las Vegas home near dawn yesterday.’

  “‘The robber knocked out Kinsella before escaping without any ill-gotten goods. While police investigate, we can speculate. According to Barr, the men had been visiting backstage with local headliners into the wee hours and surprised the miscreant when they finished their tour at Kinsella’s home. Let’s hope this is the start of a beautiful friendship, if not a performing alliance.’”

  Matt lowered the pages. “This implies a whole lot of stuff.”

  “I was saying, you’ll want to marry Temple ASAP, just to quash the rumors about ‘us.’”

&nbs
p; “I want to marry her ASAP anyway.” Matt groaned. “This is worse than getting shot.”

  “No, the worst thing will be telling Temple you’ve been dating Kathleen O’Connor for the past couple weeks.”

  Matt felt his stomach knot up tighter than the pain had accomplished so far. “It was the only way to keep that psycho from going after Temple.”

  “It’s not what you did and why you did it; it’s that you didn’t tell her. Secrets are not a healthy foundation for a marriage.”

  “You’re telling me that, Mr. Professional Prevaricator? You kept her in the dark about your counterintelligence activities for more than a year.”

  “And I’m not the one marrying Temple.”

  Matt sat up in bed and put his head in his hands.

  “And,” Kinsella said, “you’re not the one with a fresh head injury on top of a brain crash.”

  The guy’s rueful good humor was grating on Matt. “Kathleen told Temple about our enforced ‘trysts’ while she held us all at gunpoint. The big shock is already over. And where is the gun anyway? You and I were hauled out of there plenty fast by the ambulances.”

  “Back in its safe hidey-hole in the house,” Kinsella said. “I was more mobile at the time than you.”

  “I still can’t figure how Kathleen got the gun away from you.”

  Kinsella shook his head, and then winced. “I’m not one hundred percent, Devine. And I never was invincible. I’m not sure how she did it, either, but I’m not worrying about it. Her next moves are worth worrying about, but I think she’ll be dealing direct, now that she’s finally found me.”

  “‘She’s finally found you.’ Funny, that could be the title of a romantic ballad instead of a stalking song.”

  “Speaking of which,” Kinsella said, sitting up in bed. “Temple has finally found you again.”

  The sound of hurrying high heels echoed in the hall. Temple appeared around the corner, a burst of color and energy.

  “You can come home, Matt,” she announced joyfully. “You’re released. I’ve brought your clothes and have extra tote bags for the flowers—oh, there are more—we can hang the totes on the wheelchair that’s coming.…”