Probable Claws

by Clea Simon

  I was teasing, but the look he gave me made me wonder. “Bill!” I pulled back to look at him, but he’d turned away. Someone was pitching, which I guess made the TV more attractive. “Hey, look at me.”

  He turned, and I saw sadness in his face. “What is it?” I couldn’t help reaching up to stroke his cheek. He took my hand in his and lowered them both to the couch.

  “I don’t know, Theda. I mean, I trust you, I do.” I couldn’t help raising my eyebrows at that, but he went on. “It’s just that, well, I’m not a kid anymore. I’d like to start thinking about my future, about what I want for the next forty years or so.”

  “I thought that’s what the Last Stand was about?”

  “It is, but now that the club’s launched, I want to get my other ducks in a row.” That phrase bothered me, but I bit my tongue and nodded, waiting. “I want to know I’m in something that’s going somewhere. I mean, I’ve been burned.”

  So that was it. Before meeting me, Bill had spent close to four years with a woman who ultimately decided that she didn’t want to be a cop’s girlfriend. I didn’t know all the details, but I think he’d even offered to quit back then, only to find out that it wasn’t his job that was the sticking point. She’d hared off to the West Coast, looking for the excitement of new relationships, and he’d found out that he missed her cats more than anything about her. But maybe the damage was greater than I’d thought.

  “I’m not Laura.” I turned to look into his eyes. “You know that.”

  “I do.” A ghost of a smile appeared. “But you do have some of her issues.” Before I could protest, he raised a hand and went on. “I mean, Theda, I understand the music thing. I really do. But others of your friends are settling down. Getting married. Having children.”

  “We’ve got time.” That baby comment hit a sore spot.

  “Don’t you have a birthday coming up soon?” The smile was broader now. “Now, maybe I made a mistake, but I’d been making some plans…”

  “The Boat House?” He knew my favorite restaurant, outside of the Casbah or Petruccio’s Pizza, that is.

  “I was thinking more of a mushroom, onion, green pepper pizza, with a couple of candles stuck in it. We could clear off some of the bar—”

  I hit him with a sofa cushion and he grabbed me, laughing. The rest of the conversation dealt more with the present than the future, but even later, as I sank into sleep, I knew that the topic remained open for discussion.

  ***

  “Coffee?” I woke to the glorious smell of a fresh pot and the glorious sight of Bill, in his comfy blue bathrobe, holding out a mug.

  “My hero!” I tried fluttering my eyelashes, but he’d already snorted and left the room. When I smelled bacon and heard the hissing of the pan, I forgave him.

  “Hey babe. Good column.” By the time I’d showered and dressed, he had a plate ready for me, sitting right next to the Mail. “What are you up to today?”

  “I get to spring Musetta.” I leafed through the section. After yesterday’s edit, I was a little afraid to read the result. “I hate not having her around.”

  “Ah,” he turned back to the oven. “So that’s why you were so eager to come over to my place last night.”

  “Not the only reason.” I opened Living/Arts and sat down to read, pulling the plate close.

  “Sports, please?” My mouth full, I pulled out the offending section and handed it across. For a few minutes, we were peaceful, the crunching of bacon—extra crispy—and the slurping of coffee the only sounds.

  “Damn.” I put down the slice and licked my fingers before drawing the page closer. “Bother and damnation.”

  “Bad edit?” Bill knew me very well.

  “Just an ignorant one.” Someone, and I bet I knew who, had decided to spell out some of the phrases in my piece, substituting “hardcore” for “core,” and essentially inserting an error. The second, “correcting” Stax Records to “stacks” of records, was just stupid. Jesse, the copy editor, wouldn’t have made that mistake. I finished reading and closed the paper, trying to think what to do.

  “Bad enough for you to ask for a correction?” Bill knew the routine. He also knew that corrections usually resulted in someone getting disciplined, or at least a talking to. I didn’t want Jesse to get blamed, and if someone higher up—someone named “Cash”—had put those errors in my piece, she might be the one to catch flack.

  “I don’t know.” I reached for another slice of bacon. “There’s weird stuff going on down there.”

  “I’ve got time.” To prove it, he stood to refill our mugs. But in that moment, I’d seen the clock. Ten thirty. Soon Musetta would be awake and ready to go.

  “Sorry, sweetie.” I drained my cup and stood up. “I hadn’t realized it was this late. I want to free the kitty, get her home, and give her something to eat.”

  “Fill me in later?” He put down his own mug and reached over to kiss me.

  “You bet!” Even though I could have used more coffee, I felt springier than I’d had in ages. The sun was out. Bill and I were back together, and I was on my way to bring home Musetta. What could go wrong?

  Chapter Eleven

  The shelter parking lot was already packed, so I pulled up next to a truck in the loading area and left my blinkers on. A man in a brown uniform was putting crates on a hand cart. By the time he was done, I’d be on my way out, cat in hand. I beeped my Toyota shut as I trotted up the walk, past that back door and around to the front. The waiting area mirrored the lot. Not even eleven, and Amy looked overwhelmed already.

  “Hold, please.” She nodded as she reached for another button on the blinking phone. In the middle of the room, a little boy started to scream. “Hold!”

  “I’m going in.” I pointed and mouthed the words, rather than add to the din. Amy looked like she was about to say something, but just then an aide dressed in green scrubs opened the door.

  “Martha? Martha Crossington?” An older woman jumped up to follow, and I grabbed the door behind her. “In here, Martha.” The aide directed the woman into one of the small offices on the right, but I kept going, stopping briefly in front of the cat quarantine room to squirt some hand purifier from a wall dispenser. Coming in alone was against the rules. But I knew my way around the shelter, and I wanted my cat. Besides, that truck driver was going to need to pull out at some point.

  Rubbing the cool gel over my hands and up to my wrists, I passed Rachel’s office and made my way up to the cat ward. Inside, cages stacked three deep held a small assortment of animals. Two females with shaved bellies. An old tabby with a bandaged ear, and a black and white kitten that seemed to be shivering with shock.

  “Poor baby.” Tuxedo cats always reminded me of Musetta. I leaned closer to its cage, but stepped back when I saw it retreat, scared, under a pile of torn newspaper. “Sorry.”

  What I didn’t see was my own pet. “Musetta?” I looked around, but the other cages were empty. “Kitty, you here?” Rachel should have been long finished with her by now. She’d said eleven. Unless—the thought made my stomach sink—there had been a problem. I started to look around, a cold panic creeping up my spine.

  Behind me, metal shelving held litter and towels. I pushed them aside. More towels. The other door looked out onto the back hall and right by it, a clothes hamper smelled like somebody had been cleaning up accidents. That was it, except for a row of hooks holding clean coats and scrubs. One had fallen to the floor, and I reached to pick it up.

  “Wow?” There was Musetta, in her carrier, tucked back against the wall. “Wow!” She poked one paw out of the carrier’s grill and reached for me.

  Relief washed over me and I sank down to the floor beside her. Funny, I’d have thought she’d still be groggy. And why wasn’t she in a cage? There were several empty ones, clean and considerably bigger than her green plastic traveling case.

  “Musetta, did she forget about you?” As my panic ebbed, I began to feel annoyed. “Did someone leave you here all ni
ght?” I opened the carrier and lifted my cat up into my lap. She was fully awake. She was also, I noticed with dismay, wet. There was something sticky on her fur. Had she been left here and spilled on? I looked over at the hamper and back at my cat.

  “Hold on, kitty.” I lifted her to examine her more closely. “I need to see what you got into.” I ran my fingers through her fur, but there wasn’t enough residue to wet them, and her dark fur camouflaged what was left. But at that moment she reached out to paw at me again, I felt the dampness on her cool paw pads, I also saw, stark against the white of her little sock, the bright red of blood.

  “Musetta!” I held her paw up to my face. Blood, or what seemed to be blood, was sunk between her toe pads, but I could see no cuts—and the fact that she put up with me handling her feet made me calm down. A thorough going over revealed no further bloody spots, or any tender parts, although I did get nipped when I insisted on running my hands all along her belly.

  “What the hell?” Had Musetta come into contact with an injured animal here in the recovery room or in Rachel’s surgery? Yes, the shelter was busy. But this was just too sloppy. Here I was, drying my skin out with Purell while Rachel’s patients were swapping blood samples. My fear had turned to anger, and I put Musetta back in her carrier. No way was I leaving her here again. I needed to talk to that vet.

  ***

  “Rachel!” I stepped out in the hallway, Musetta’s carrier in hand. “Where are you? What’s going on here? Rachel!” I had to calm down, I knew that, but I was still muttering as a vet tech walked past. She gave me a look. I took the short passage back toward Rachel’s office in three broad strides and called through the door.

  “Rachel!” I was trying not to yell, but this was ridiculous. “Are you in there?” Musetta peered up at me through the top of her carrier. “Rachel?”

  The hall was silent, the bustle of the waiting room a distant murmur. And who knew what was going on in the parking lot? I raised my voice. “Rachel!”

  The woman I knew would have at least poked her head out if she’d heard me, but I was angry and also feeling rushed. I pounded on the door. “Rachel!” Nothing. I tried the handle. It opened.

  “Rachel?” Something was wrong. Papers were strewn about, and the little air purifier hummed, but the office was empty. I stepped in. Light came through the open back door, illuminating the kitten poster. But the treatment room looked empty, too.

  “Rachel?” I made my way through the darkened office, calling for her. “Rachel?”

  Everything was too quiet, and I startled myself by bumping up against something. It was Rachel’s desk chair, the one Violet had napped in, lying overturned on the floor. I reached over to right it, grabbing the black nylon back. It was wet. Had something spilled here too? Drying my hands on my jeans, I stepped past the desk, and something caught my eye. There was something odd on the floor. Something lying on the ground, propping that back door open. A pile of white, like a lab coat, only in the light from the treatment room, I could see that the pile was stained and wet and red. It was Rachel.

  I knew better than to touch anything. I started to back out, started to yell, to call for help, then I saw a movement. A sign of life. Her eyes were staring straight ahead, but her lips, darkened with her own blood, were forming words.

  “What is it? Rachel? What happened?” In a flash, I was on the floor with her. This wasn’t a crime scene; this was my friend. “Are you hurt?”

  The absurdity of my own words hit me. She was lying there, her body unnaturally still. My hand had landed by the red spot on her coat and the spot was spreading. Hypnotized, I stared at it. Watched it grow.

  “Pah.” Rachel’s voice, barely a whisper, broke the spell and I kneeled closer. Her eyes were so beautiful, chocolate brown and glistening. Why had I never noticed?

  “What is it, Rachel? What are you saying?”

  Her lips kept moving, a soft huff of air the only sign of life. “Rachel?” I grabbed her then and held her close, pressing the side of my face up against her mouth. “Rach?”

  “Pah. Pah. Pah.” Little exhalations, but no words. “Pah!”

  I pressed my face closer, trying to understand, and held my own breath, the better to hear. Her lips moved like those of a beached goldfish. “Pah. Pah.” And then they stopped.

  ***

  “No!” I must have yelled, because I remember hearing the sound of my own voice. One word. “No!” People came running, so I must have been loud. “No!”

  I heard hammering on the door, before someone realized it wasn’t locked. Then someone—Amy?—was pulling on me, trying to take Rachel from me. I was shaking her by then, trying to wake her. To make her say more. To bring her back. But the woman in my arms wasn’t going to be righted anytime soon. As they pulled me back and took her from me, I could clearly see the slash, like the swipe mark of a giant claw, that had opened her neck. I felt her head flop back against me, her hair loose now and soft. I must have grabbed the knife, too, after seeing it on the floor beside her. I was grabbing at everything then, not wanting to let my friend lose anything more from that horrible wound.

  Time slipped by, minutes, maybe more, but it seemed like suddenly more people were in the room. Had always been in the room. That volunteer, a tech in green scrubs. Some of the family from the waiting room, all crowding close, even if they sounded far away. Someone said something about a blade, and I was startled to see it still in my hand, small, but sharp and sticky. I dropped it and watched it clatter onto the floor, right by Musetta’s carrier. Time slowed to a crawl. People were yelling. Rachel had been laid back down on the floor. Someone was crouching over her. I looked down at her, too, and the wounds were obvious now. Several long slashes, savage and dark. Suddenly, I couldn’t stand it. I staggered back, wiping my hands on my jeans, and heard someone yelp as she scrambled out of the way. My fingers felt tacky. Hot, and as I fell back against Rachel’s desk, I grabbed a handful of papers, desperate to cleanse myself of her blood. I looked down at my friend, so still. Everybody was staring, and then Musetta let out a howl.

  ***

  “Kitty!” That cry woke me out of my stupor and I reached for her carrier. So many people, so much noise. I wouldn’t have been surprised if her carrier had been kicked and jostled. But as I reached for the green plastic case, other arms were reaching for me and I found myself pulled out of the room, into the hall, where more arms, stronger arms pushed me up against the wall.

  “But my cat—” I didn’t get a chance to finish.

  “Save it.” The voice was deep and tired, and with a flash I realized it was a cop’s voice. I’d heard Bill sound like that. “I’m going to read you your rights now.”

  “But Musetta—” None of this was making sense.

  I heard a deep sigh. “The animal will be taken care of.” And I realized I wasn’t going to get a chance to explain, that I had found her, that I had tried to listen. I looked over and saw the EMTs. One of them was carrying a stretcher. They hurried, hopeful, but I knew what they would find. My friend was beyond saving. She would be carried away, her pretty face covered, and I was under arrest.

  Chapter Twelve

  “You’ve got to lock the doors! Whoever did this is getting away!” Why wasn’t anyone listening?

  “Miss—”

  “Krakow, Theda Krakow.” Time was returning to its normal pace and I began to be aware of what was happening. A cop was here. She was holding me, and I was babbling. “I’m Bill Sherman’s girlfriend? Bill Sherman, a detective in Cambridge?” That came out of nowhere, and as I heard myself say the words, I realized, for the first time, how grateful I was for Bill’s career. Or, his ex-career. He hadn’t been gone that long, had he? “But really, I just found her. Whoever did it. Did her—” I stammered, unable to say the words—“Don’t let them get away.”

  My grammar had fled, but at least my wits had returned. No wonder Rachel hadn’t answered when I’d called. Was this why Musetta was still in her carrier? How long had Rachel been l
ying there? What had she been trying to say?

  “You’ve got to believe me. I’m a patient. I mean, my cat is. Rachel was going to sneak her in for dental work before the shelter opened, and she didn’t do it. So whoever, well, whoever must have been in here early.”

  Something must have sunk in. I couldn’t see the cop who held me up against the wall, but I saw her partner, a tall younger man, nod and signal. The place must be swarming with blue.

  But, I realized, it was also swarming with suspects. Where had that vet tech been going? How many people had been in the waiting room? That security door hadn’t slowed me down any. I stumbled as we walked back through it, and felt the cop’s firm grip on my elbow, my hands cuffed behind me. What would Amy think? I’d rushed in like a madwoman. Had she heard me yelling? Had that vet tech, the woman in the green scrubs? But they knew me and would vouch for me. Wouldn’t they?

  We walked through the waiting room, quiet now, except for the rattle of the printer. Even the screaming boy had shut up, and as I passed, his mother pushed him behind her, shielding him.

  “Amy!” She was talking to another cop, a black woman in uniform, but she looked up when I called. “Amy, tell them I couldn’t do this.” Her mouth opened, but I didn’t hear anything, and then I was outside.

  There was my car, blinkers still going. No doubt it was headed for the impound lot. And my cat? Who would take care of my cat?

  “I get to call someone, right?” I’d have to call Bill anyway, but would he be the right one to come for Musetta? Or should I call Violet? No, Musetta had been through enough. Going from the city shelter to Helmhold House, with all those other cats, would be too much for my sensitive kitty. It was going to have to be Bill. He’d cat sat her before. Ideally, this would all be sorted out quickly.