“There she is.” The sadness in Old Man Jack’s voice was palpable in the air. I tried to let it waft over my head but even with my shoulders hunched, it dropped down over my body like a cloak.
In the pit of my stomach, I felt longing blossom. I heard cries from so far back in my memory that I could barely make out the sounds. I shook my head again, not wanting my concentration to float away in a sea of old visions.
On the screen, a man entered the shop. He wore a bandanna, too, but his covered up his nose and mouth. Curls came out from under a baseball cap to frame his eyes—the only part of his face that was visible. I didn’t recognize him in the slightest, but from the stiffening of Old Man Jack’s body, I could tell he was a wrong‘un.
As Jack’s hands clenched into fists, I watched the man onscreen pull out a knife. It was six inches from base to tip, gleaming silver even on the flickering screen. He tilted it from side to side, heightening the reflections, though he wasn’t looking at the blade. The man’s eyes were fixed on Agnes. Hers were on the knife.
The man’s mouth moved, but no sounds came out. I realized then that no sounds were accompanying this movie at all—a feature that usually only happened when my human screwed up his face in distaste and pushed a special button.
With the fear consuming Agnes’s face before my eyes, I wasn’t sure if the absence of sound was a good or a bad thing. Her eyes grew so large that they seemed to swallow up her cheeks. Her mouth opened in a scream that must have filled the world with sound.
The knife flickered on the television, its movement so quick that the grainy flicker of film wasn’t equal to catching it. One moment, it was held in front of the man’s face. The next, it was shoved in Agnes’s, cutting into her cheek.
I meowed in surprise and jumped to my feet, ready to do battle. On the screen, Agnes reared back too, reaching an arm out to grab hold of something out of shot.
Old Man Jack growled—a sound that began deep in his throat before reverberating out across his barrel of a chest. Its pitch was savage, the low warning of a dog about to attack.
A basket of food went flying across the screen. The boiling hot oil and the chicken carcass that had been frying in it, suddenly splashing across the attacker’s face instead. I jumped up and down on the spot, proud of Agnes for fighting back against the brute.
I knew how movies worked. Now, the man would run away, and Agnes would shake her hands in triumph.
But the movie didn’t work like that at all.
With an open mouth, the man lunged across the counter, grabbing a fistful of Agnes’s shirt in his hand and drawing her up until their faces were pressed together.
The knife blade flashed on the screen again, cutting out in her direction, too quick to see exactly where it landed. The attacker hauled her to one side, pulling her out from behind the counter and raising his arm to catch Agnes in a choke hold.
My breath caught as I watched her struggle. She punched against the man’s arms, stamped her legs, each thumping step aimed at his feet. He outmaneuvered her each time, delivering more harm in his choke hold than she could deal out with her flailing limbs.
After a longer time than I thought I could bear to watch, Agnes’s struggles began to soften, her arms and legs loosening. The man pushed her forward, and she had just enough strength left to march.
A howl from Old Man Jack split the air above me, making my chest tighten until I could barely draw a breath. The terrible movie finished, and he turned the machine off, only to set it rewinding again. A minute later, he pressed a button, and the entire scenario played out once more.
Oh, but it was agony to watch such a thing happen. I didn’t know Agnes as well as I knew Old Man Jack and I didn’t know him well enough to be such an intrusion on his grief.
I turned to go, but he reached out to me for comfort in that same moment. Instead of heading out the door, I jumped into his lap and curled up, ready to view the unbearable with him again.
I didn’t look at the central figures this time. My heart was already breaking, bad memories knocking at the door of my mind—one more trip through would let everything loose with disastrous results.
Instead, my glance rested in the corner of the screen. No action was taking place there, it seemed a harmless enough pursuit. Halfway through the movie, at a point where Old Man Jack tightened his grip on me in distress, I saw a flash of movement.
A few seconds later, a face came into the frame, then ducked back out again, not wanting to be seen. The eyes I saw weren’t peering at the dreadful action playing out in front of them, no. Those eyes stared directly up at the corner of the shop—straight down the lens of the camera.
In the corner of the screen, I saw the face of the meanest cat in town. A cat who Fat Bobby followed as though he was a god.
One-Eared Whitey.
Chapter Seven
On the next time through, I unfurled myself from Old Man Jack’s lap and strolled over to the screen. In case the man hadn’t seen him, I deliberately pointed to the cat when he appeared. Jack just shook his head, motioning for me to get out of the way.
I didn’t know why he couldn’t understand the importance, but even when I stood off to one side like a model, and only waved at the point that One-Eared Whitey appeared, Old Man Jack wasn’t interested.
I hopped onto his lap, stared him straight in the eye and told him point-blank, “She’ll be there. Where Whitey’s human lives. Come with me, and I’ll show you!”
The man didn’t respond.
Well, he did push me aside to get a better look at the screen, but I meant respond in a positive way.
I hopped down, made one last futile effort to gain his interest and then wandered out the door. It was now evident to me what the next step was. It was also pretty clear that it would involve my death if I didn’t think it through.
Where Fat Bobby was trouble with a capital T, One-Eared Whitey was a thousand times worse. Not only was he an older cat, soured by the scars of a thousand battles, but he also had the constant pain of arthritis in his back legs, making him foul-tempered.
I’d never gotten close enough to him to befall his viciousness personally, but I’d had the misfortune to see those foolish or slow enough to step in his way get their punishment.
In no version of this world did I want to get in Whitey’s way.
But giving up at the starting post wouldn’t win back Agnes. That wouldn’t restore Old Man Jack to a happy camper and ensure he reopened the dairy. If I wanted things to go back to normal, then I had to take action to get them on the right track.
First things first—I needed to get over to One-Eared Whitey’s home base to suss out whether Agnes was actually being held there. If she were, then hopefully by that stage another bright idea would have occurred to me. I’d need something that shone with the light of a thousand suns to overcome the baddest cat in town.
Although “The Winners” gang of cats were mostly strays, One-Eared Whitey was a notable exception to the rule. If you think of house cats as being pampered and lucky enough to have the edges of their lives softened, then old Whitey would be enough to have you thinking again.
Whether it was the pain he suffered through every day or just a mean disposition dropped upon him by the birth fairies, One-Eared Whitey had never met a place, person, or thing in his life that he didn’t immediately want to tear to pieces. His owners were mean, too, but they still bore the crisscross of scars from his claws.
If I had to guess a reason that his long-suffering humans had resorted to kidnap to achieve their aim, I’d be tempted to point in their cat’s direction. I’ve heard some bizarre human theory that after a while cats start to look like their owners.
That’s nonsense of the worst kind, that is.
Humans that start to resemble their cats, though? That there was a thing of such common knowledge that I’d go ahead and call it fact.
Live with a mean cat for long enough, and it was no wonder they were resorting to crime.
&
nbsp; Still, I couldn’t fathom the reasoning behind taking Agnes. There must be some kind of logic driving the reckless behavior. It wasn’t as though the man had snapped and just started waving his knife about. He’d planned whatever evil he was up to—right down to the bandanna across his face.
What had Old Man Jack muttered while he’d been watching the CCTV on constant replay? They hadn’t even phoned through for a ransom.
Ouch.
That meant that money wasn’t the root cause. Well, it could possibly be down to cash still, but with an abductor was so stupid that he’d forgotten to issue the demand. Out of all the likely scenarios, though, I’d put that near the bottom of the list.
An abduction for no reason. A meticulous plan, all worked out. A cat coming along to ensure that things went smoothly, or just to soak up the pleasure of another being in distress.
None of that added up. If my human wanted to go off and do some human thing, he didn’t want me to come along for the ride. He wouldn’t tax me with the effort. Only when there was an apparent reward waiting for me at the end, would he even put forth the suggestion.
So, Whitey got something out of this abduction. Might as well note that down and call it a fact.
With all my thinking, I’d made it halfway to Whitey’s house and still hadn’t started to consider a plan.
The roads on this side of town were newer, the markings still fresh enough with white paint that they glowed slightly in the sun. Each house that I passed now looked identical to the last. Same materials, the same number of rooms, the same landscaping. If a cat didn’t have a nose to sniff its way to the correct establishment, it would have a hard time telling it by sight.
Still, maybe that wrinkle of disdain hid a more profound truth. The yards here were bigger, and though the trees were less established, they weren’t yet beset with blight.
If it came down to a trade, I doubted that I’d still hold my high and mighty opinions. When I turned and looked back at the township, nestled beneath the green forested hills, it made for a stunning sight.
Not that my human had any plans to move. I needed to start getting my mind in the game if I wanted to play to win.
The problem must have been down to the number of hours that I’d gone without a nap. At the thought, a wave of dizziness flowed over me, and I nearly stumbled in my step.
Oh, what I wouldn’t give to curl up beside that obnoxiously new fencepost and spend a couple of hours slumbering in the sun!
I shook my head, feeling my thoughts starting to lose their sharp edges and instead turn into the muddiness of dreams. This was real. I had an actual problem. Going and kipping for an hour or more wouldn’t get me any closer to solving it.
After giving myself a stern talking-to, I carried on down the street. Once I reached the correct address, I walked straight past it, glancing inside from the corner of my eyes so it wouldn’t be noticeable I was caging the place.
The house was set back behind a more massive front lawn than most of the properties along this stretch of road. Although it was still a new subdivision compared to the homes in the town proper, the address appeared to be one of those first-built. Old when lined up next to its near neighbors.
A hardened lawn between the front fence and the front door showed that they’d taken the long summer’s water restrictions seriously. That, or they couldn’t be bothered to water, even when the result was a stretch of deadened brown grass.
I continued onward, intending to circle around the block to come back to the front of the property again. Halfway through the plan, it occurred to me that a sneak attack from the rear might be called for instead. I cut through a derelict section where the foundations for a dwelling had been laid and abandoned months ago, judging by the overgrowth.
I hated to find yet another chink in my armor, but after such an extended period without the ability to leave my own home, I discovered my fence-mounting and walking skills were sadly lacking. More than once, I jumped up onto the apex only to go skidding indecorously down the other side.
If anybody filmed that to stick on the internet, I hope that karma finds them and eats them alive.
Eventually, I managed to navigate around the rear of the property. Although the backyard was scarcely half the size of the front, the owners appeared determined to store three houses worth of junk back there. I wriggled my way under a rusting heap of metal that might once have been a road-worthy beast and waited for One-Eared Whitey’s owners to reveal themselves.
I might have napped.
Not that I’m holding my paw up to it, mind, but the shadows did seem to lengthen in leaps and bounds. By the time I judged the sun to be in the waning of late afternoon, I heard the slam of a car door, and two sets of footsteps headed around into the backyard.
“I don’t know why you couldn’t just follow instructions,” one gruff voice said. “Give her a scare, they said. Not render her unconscious then stuff her body in the trunk!”
“She threw a pot of frying chicken at me!”
“So you got fed on a job—” the man talking spat a large gob out onto the dusty lawn “—so what? If you can’t be trusted to handle the little things, then don’t think that anything big will ever come your way.”
“I don’t think—”
“No. You don’t.”
The men continued around the side of the house, the argument going with them. I lay on the grass under the rusted car and thought about what they’d said.
A trunk could be in the back of a metal road-beast, or it could mean a large suitcase. Neither one would raise an eyebrow on the townships central streets. So many tourists milled about that area, there were trunks of both kinds aplenty.
If it were the road-beast, then I could sneak around the side of the house and have a sniff right now. If Agnes were in a suitcase, though, then it spelled a more serious issue. That was something could be taken or deposited anywhere.
I snuck back around the rusting hulk and stayed close to the fence line as I walked over to their vehicle. Since it was the one they’d just arrived in, the bonnet was ticking and clicking as the engine cooled and it retracted back to standard size.
One side window of the car was rolled down. I got as close as I could without jumping into it and had a tentative sniff.
The innards of the road-beast held many odors, but none of them was female.
At the rear of the vehicle, I stopped and took a giant sniff again. For a second, the scent of gas overwhelmed me, and I coughed and spluttered my breath out. Edging closer to the keyhole on the trunk, I inhaled with more caution. This time, I got the definite scent of a woman, underneath all the other odors.
Agnes had been in there, but it was evident by the smell that she wasn’t there any longer. The brutes must have taken her inside the house.
I slunk around the side of the house and approached the front door with caution. With one paw, I tested the cat flap. It moved.
If I ventured indoors, then I was placing my life into the hands of fate. One-Eared Whitey could kill me with one sweep of his massive claws.
Still, this was food I was seeking. Not some luxury item like a sheepskin rug to lie on in front of the fire. If I couldn’t get myself appropriately fed, then I’d never be happy or satisfied again.
I poked my head inside, trying to look in all directions at once. If only I could see through walls, I would have felt more comfortable.
There was a trace of a woman in there. I couldn’t tell if she had been and gone, or if Agnes was still trapped somewhere inside, locked deep within its four walls.
Courage. I took a deep breath and summoned it up from every cell in my body.
I’d only taken four steps inside before Whitey sauntered around the corner and stared at me with angry eyes.
Chapter Eight
Time froze. I stood stock still, staring. A sense of horror washed over me with such force that if I moved, it might carry me away.
In slow motion, Whitey’s face turned from peaceable
to furious. The indignation was the starting point, but any fool could see that wasn’t where he’d end up.
I saw his muscles tense, ready to give chase, and adrenaline spiked through my bloodstream. At last, my body was back under my control. I turned and ran.
My lithe body gave me the immediate advantage of speed, but the sheer weight of Whitey gave him forward momentum that soon had him topping me. My head smacked against the cat door, blinding me temporarily as I ran outside. His paws thumped in close pursuit.
Which way?
I turned toward the car in the driveway, remembering the slit window that might let me gain entry. It was no use me getting into a long footrace with One-Eared Whitey—not when I hadn’t eaten much or genuinely napped throughout the day.
When my hind legs catapulted me forward, I thought for a moment of blinding panic that I wouldn’t fit through the small gap. Then my front legs flew inside, and the weight of my upper body pulled the back of me through where I would otherwise have stuck fast.
I backpedaled to avoid smacking into the opposite door, turned to my right and ducked into the cavity underneath the front seat.
Only then did I realize that I’d trapped myself.
Whitey followed my lead, his ferocious claws entering through the gap in the window, already extended ready to swipe at my head. I ducked further back under the seat, my body turning into a liquid that flowed into the empty crevices. At a maximum retreating distance, I was still only two body-lengths away from capture.
Then Whitey got stuck.
The air came out of him in a gush that sounded close to a dog’s bark. His hind legs struggled for purchase on the outside of the glass, while his upper body dangled uselessly inside.
“What on earth is your cat up to?” a man’s voice exclaimed from further up the driveway. A burst of harsh laughter followed soon after, then Whitey was pulled back out of the window by a heft hand. When he began to vigorously remonstrate his human, the man just laughed harder and popped him through the cat door, then held it shut with his foot.
Food Bowl Mysteries Books 1-3 Page 4