Take the Monkey and Run

by Laura Morrigan

  “Excuse me. Grace Wilde?” The voice came from my left and though we’d only spoken on the phone, I recognized it as Anya’s. The Russian accent was a dead giveaway.

  I turned and saw a blond woman step toward me. I shifted my phone to the other hand so I could shake the one she offered.

  “Thank you so much for coming.”

  “I just hope I can help.”

  “I’m sure you will.” Her accent made the last word sound like ville. “Please, it is this way.” As we were crossing the street, I got another text. I frowned at the message. It was from a blocked number and was a single word: Boo. There was only one person who would send me a text from a blocked number.

  Logan, AKA the Ghost. Man of mystery, criminal, sometimes ally. I hadn’t seen him in over a month. He didn’t contact me unless there was a problem.

  Before I could type a quick response asking what was wrong, another text came in.

  XX

  Two capital X’s?

  I shot Anya a surreptitious glance. The woman was paying for my time, and I didn’t want her to think I wasn’t giving her my full attention. As I looked up, I noticed a bar across the street with a large inflatable Dos Equis bottle tethered to the pole.

  My phone chimed again.

  Miss you. We need to talk. XX

  I looked at the Dos Equis bottle and noticed the bum standing next to it. He seemed to be staring at me from under his dark hoodie. When he saw me looking he turned and went into the bar. He didn’t shuffle or stagger. His movement was graceful and efficient.

  “Grace, are you okay?” Anya asked, noticing I’d slowed to a stop.

  “Yes. I’m so sorry,” I said with an apologetic smile. “I just realized I really need to use the ladies’ room. Too much coffee and a long ride in the streetcar. I’ll be right back.” I didn’t give her a chance to object. Rushing across the street, I ducked into the bar.

  The interior of the narrow tavern was dim and had that strange hushed hollowness that some nightspots have in the light of day.

  There was a scruffy-looking bald man seated at the counter with his eyes fixed to the mounted television. I didn’t see a bartender or a bum so I walked toward the back and stepped through the saloon-style doors into a small graffiti-coated hallway.

  I paused for a moment. Had I actually just followed a bum into the deserted back room of a bar?

  “I’ve lost my mind,” I said on a whispered breath.

  The space seemed deserted. At the opposite end of the hall was a door marked PRIVATE. I started toward it and was stopped abruptly when someone grabbed me and dragged me into a room to my right.

  My scream never had a chance. As soon as I’d sucked in a breath, a hand clamped over my mouth.

  I twisted and slipped away, only to be pinned with my back against the wall. Somehow the hand had stayed over my mouth the whole time.

  “Shhh. Grace, it’s okay. It’s me.” I blinked at the bearded face, then narrowed my eyes as they locked on to his.

  Logan.

  I shoved at his chest and, when he dropped his hand, hissed, “Get off me. What is it with you? Always giving me a freaking heart attack.”

  Logan might have been an enforcer for the mob, a guy so scary criminals were frightened of him, but that didn’t stop me from getting angry at being manhandled.

  “We don’t have time to chat,” he said in a harsh whisper. “Listen, you can’t trust them.”

  “Them? Them who?” So far, I’d spoken only to Anya.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Damn it, Logan, cut the cloak-and-dagger crap and just tell me what’s going on.”

  “Right now all you need to know is you can’t give them what they want.”

  “What am I supposed to do?”

  “Lie. Even better, embellish. Add details that aren’t true. You can’t let these people know what you can do.”

  “How do you know what I can do?” I’d never told Logan about my ability.

  “I’ll explain everything later,” he said.

  “Logan—”

  “Do you trust me?” he asked.

  I hesitated, a little taken aback. The quick answer was no. Trust didn’t come easily to me. And I’d have to be nuts to trust an enforcer for the mob—and yet . . . it wasn’t that simple.

  Did I trust Logan? Not really. Did I think he would hurt me or let me be hurt? Probably not.

  There was something in his expression. I couldn’t quite interpret it. That’s what happens when you spend more time talking to animals than to people.

  “Grace—”

  I pressed my lips together and, with some reluctance, gave him a quick nod.

  “Good. Then trust that I’ll explain everything later—” He broke off suddenly and looked over my shoulder almost as if he could see through the wall into the bar.

  He pivoted, leaned into the stall, and flushed the toilet, then turned the handle on the faucet of the small, wall-mounted sink and mouthed, “Wash.”

  Bewildered, I put my hands under the running water.

  After a few seconds, Logan turned the faucet off and touched his fingers to his lips. In the quiet, I could hear the light click-clack of heels on the wood floor, followed by the creak of the saloon doors as they swooshed open.

  Logan punched the button on the ancient hand dryer. It sighed to life, wafting tepid air over my fingers.

  “Watch yourself.” The words were muttered so quietly in my ear, I almost didn’t hear them.

  Almost.

  So great was the impact of those words that when a soft knock sounded at the door, I jumped, only barely managing to swallow a yelp.

  Logan canted his head, indicating I should go.

  I pulled the door open. Anya stood in the hall, blinking at me.

  “Sorry.” I shook excess water off my hands. “That dryer is worthless.” I walked past her to the bar and grabbed a couple of paper cocktail napkins from their holder.

  Anya trailed after me as I headed outside.

  The unexpected run-in with Logan and his cryptic message had caught me off guard and made me jumpy.

  I suck at small talk, especially when I’m nervous, and being accosted by Logan hadn’t helped. I tried to hide my nerves by asking typical touristy questions, but quickly learned Anya didn’t live in the city.

  “I am only here to find Veronica,” she said.

  We rounded the corner and started down a narrow street. A slender man wearing glasses was waiting near a gate in a privacy fence.

  “Grace, I’d like you to meet Dr. Barry Schellenger.”

  “Dr. Schellenger.” I took the man’s hand. His fingers were warm but his grip tentative and loose.

  “I’m glad you could come, Miss Wilde. Please, call me Barry.”

  So, it was a “they,” as Logan had said.

  The man’s eyes didn’t dart but were never really still. He angled his head and studied me in a way that reminded me of a chicken who’d just caught sight of a particularly juicy bug.

  Even without Logan’s cryptic warning, the guy would have given me the creeps.

  I tried not to let my trepidation show as I looked from him to Anya.

  “Barry is Veronica’s psychiatrist,” she said. “I asked him to meet us. He is more able to explain my sister’s condition.”

  “Condition?”

  “Veronica is mildly schizophrenic.”

  “Oh?” Was there such a thing as mild schizophrenia?

  “Do you have the text, Anya?” he asked.

  She nodded, took a smartphone from the pocket of her coat, turned it on, and handed it to me. The screen displayed a text message to Anya.

  It read, I’m sorry . . . I can’t stay here. I couldn’t wait for you and couldn’t find Coco. You remember where I got her? That’s
where I’ll be. Get Coco and come as soon as you can. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going! Remember.

  “I’m not sure I understand,” I said. “Is this from Veronica?”

  “Yes,” Anya said, taking the phone back.

  “What’s she talking about? What does ‘remember’ mean?”

  “It means,” Barry said, his tone grave, “that Veronica has most likely stopped taking her medication.”

  “How long has she been missing?”

  “At least three days,” Anya said. “That is when I got a call from her landlord.”

  “And the Coco she mentions?” I asked, though I thought I could guess the answer.

  “Coco is her cat.”

  “So, you believe the key to finding Veronica is discovering where she got Coco.”

  “Yes,” Anya said. “Unfortunately, she never told me.”

  “I’ll be honest—zeroing in on such a specific detail is going to be tricky. If I can do it at all.”

  “Any insight you can give would be welcome,” the psychiatrist said.

  I glanced at him and almost flinched. He was looking at me with that weird chicken/velociraptor gleam in his eyes again.

  “Please,” Anya said, drawing my attention back to her. “I understand what I’m asking is difficult, but I will do anything to find her.”

  As I studied her face, I was reminded of the real reason I’d agreed to take her case. I’d asked myself, what would I do if Emma were missing?

  Anything.

  Just as Anya had said.

  I’d hire a truckload of psychics, pay anything, do anything if my sister were in trouble.

  Now, I had to wonder, was it all an act? Judging from Anya’s expression, I’d say no. She looked worried and desperate. But worried and desperate for whom?

  The psychiatrist gave me the willies. Maybe he was coercing Anya to help him.

  If that were the case, Anya’s concern might be for her own hide.

  “Veronica is a danger to herself,” the psychiatrist said. “The sooner we can make sure she’s okay and gets the proper care, the better.”

  “Well then, let’s get started,” I said.

  I’d ask Coco what she knew, but had no plans to tell them what I discovered. At least not until I heard what Logan had to say.

  Barry opened the gate in the privacy fence and we walked into a small yard with a set of wooden steps leading to the upper floor.

  At the top of the stairs was a small landing. The door to the apartment looked old but solid, except for the small cat door cut out of the bottom panel. An exterior lamp hung on the faded blue clapboard wall. Under it, a utilitarian plaque marked APT 4 was affixed to the siding.

  Anya used a key to open the door and we stepped inside.

  Veronica’s apartment wasn’t small—it was minuscule.

  The ceilings were high but the floor space was no bigger than most hotel rooms. Even so, the area was organized and tidy, not at all like I imagined the living quarters of a schizophrenic would be.

  “There’s no bed,” I said. Not that it mattered.

  “It is there.” Anya pointed up to what I realized was a sleeping loft.

  A window had been added to the gable and Veronica had attached a kitty hammock to the sill. I knew it was occupied even though I couldn’t see from where I stood.

  I didn’t reach out to the cat with my mind but I could feel her.

  “The cat is probably up there, too,” Anya said. “We have kept the cat door closed.”

  I nodded, then turned back to Anya. “I need a photo of your sister. Something to use as a reference when I talk to Coco.”

  “A reference?” Barry asked. “What do you mean?”

  “Not all animals know our names. I can ask about Veronica, but it’s better if I can use a mental picture.”

  “Interesting,” Barry said. His glinting eyes narrowed in thought.

  “Here is a photo,” Anya said, moving into what one might optimistically call a kitchenette. Attached to the fridge was a picture of two young women. I looked at the photo—neither of them looked much like Anya.

  She pointed to the woman on the right.

  “Is it a recent photo?” I asked.

  “Probably taken in the last year, I am guessing.”

  I looked back to the loft. “It might take a few minutes to get Coco to come down. I’ll have more luck if I’m alone.”

  From his expression, I could tell Barry didn’t like that. But Anya nodded and said, “Of course, we will be outside. Take your time.” She ushered Barry out and shut the front door.

  I turned back to Coco. Now I could see the tip of a tabby-colored tail hanging over the edge of the kitty hammock. It twitched back and forth.

  Something in a nearby tree had caught her interest, though I didn’t know what. I kept my mind shielded from the animal’s thoughts. Before I started asking questions, I wanted to take a quick look around.

  I hadn’t had time to process much of what Logan had said, but if Anya and Barry couldn’t be trusted and they planned to use me to find Veronica, I wanted to know as much as possible about her.

  I started in the kitchenette. There was another picture on the fridge, a snapshot of Anya that was secured by a magnet featuring the famous cathedral and statue I’d seen earlier in Jackson Square. It was next to the photo of Veronica and her unknown friend. Though I noticed there were no pictures of Veronica and Anya together.

  I didn’t see anything else of interest in the small space and had decided to move on to the bathroom when a soft meow sounded from a few feet away.

  Coco, moving as only cats can, leapt from the loft to land on the back of the sofa, then hopped down and walked toward me.

  I opened my thoughts to the cat and knew an instant later what she wanted.

  Dinner?

  Though I could tell she wasn’t very hungry, I obliged. Finding her food in a cabinet, I filled her bowl and knelt to give her a pet.

  I ran my hand down her back and smiled. It was as if I’d kick-started a motorcycle, the purrs were so loud.

  “Hey, Coco,” I murmured, figuring I’d go ahead and chat with her now. She was calm and only mildly distracted with eating.

  I hadn’t been lying when I’d told Anya it can be tough to get specific information from an animal. I can’t just access their mind in a way that lets me scroll through their memories like you can do with photos on your phone. Something has to trigger it. Finding the trigger is the hard part.

  As I watched the cat eat, I was hit with a flash of inspiration and decided to try something I hadn’t done before.

  Clearing my thoughts with a couple of slow breaths, I pressed into the cat’s mind.

  Coco was munching away happily. I used the contented feeling of a full belly as a guide. I thought of warmth and safety and tried to conjure up the idea of family. Thinking of my own mother’s hugs helped.

  Suddenly, I felt like I was in a pile of purring fur blankets and realized Coco was remembering her littermates.

  Who else is there? I asked.

  Mamere, the cat answered.

  I was going to need more than that.

  Can you show me?

  She did, though it wasn’t the most detailed or helpful series of images.

  I saw a pair of worn bedroom slippers. Bunny slippers, actually. A section of wrought-iron fence. Tall, bright green blades of grass.

  I could hear the buzz of an insect and the muted sound of a woman’s voice.

  I started to push for more but Coco’s mind had jumped to Veronica. I saw the young woman smiling down at the cat.

  “She’s beautiful, Mamere,” Veronica said in the vision.

  Suddenly, there was another abrupt shift. Coco’s thoughts leapt out of the memory and landed in the present. I blinked the room back int
o focus and glanced around to see what had distracted her, but saw nothing obvious.

  “What?” I asked, looking back at the cat.

  She didn’t answer. Ears twitching, Coco’s attention was zeroed in on the far upper corner of Veronica’s living room.

  Cats will do that sometimes—stare at nothing. Almost as if they’re seeing ghosts, and who knows, maybe in some cases they are, but usually their attention is drawn by something more tangible—a moth fluttering against a window or the scrabbling of a rodent in a crawl space. Difficult for human hearing to detect, but for a cat?

  Easy.

  Sometimes my ability gives me an advantage, even over cats. Coco knew something was in the tree outside—she just wasn’t sure what it was. I knew exactly what was creeping closer to the apartment, and I can promise you one thing—it was no rodent.

  “What the . . . ?”

  Frowning, I stood and moved to the wall, like I’d suddenly developed X-ray vision and could see through it or something.

  After a moment, I stepped back and looked through the high window at the branches of a tree.

  A little face peered back at me.

  A monkey.

  A capuchin, if I know my monkeys—and I do.

  “Where did you come from?”

  I refocused my thoughts and gently reached out with my mental feelers to get a read on the animal.

  Skittish. But not upset or frightened. There was something odd about him. Or, more accurately, his mind.

  It seemed to be pulsing. The hum of his brain fluctuated like the rise and fall of an ocean wave.

  Interesting.

  I wondered how long the little guy had been hanging around—pun intended.

  More important, I wondered if he’d seen anything of interest regarding Veronica. I pulled an image of the woman to the front of my mind and presented it to the monkey.

  The oddest thing happened. The mental picture of Veronica I’d shown the monkey flickered and froze. Then everything went blank. Another image flashed in my mind, too quickly to make out what it was.

  It flickered and stabilized, but I still couldn’t make it out. After a second, I realized why. The scene was polarized—like a 35 mm film negative.