Cross My Path

by Clea Simon

  The case touched her heart – a death, a woman hurt, a child endangered – and she undertook it with honesty and courage. But the brute who she exposed, who subsequently faced rough justice at the hands of his fellows, was only a minor player. For although that cruel and petty man was guilty of the crimes that Care would have had prosecuted, his greater sin – in the eyes of those with power – was a betrayal of trust, his perfidy endangering his master’s greater plans. For a while after that, he toyed with her, easing her way with clients and with custom, remuneration for services she did not fully understand. Perhaps he hoped to bring her under his sway. He is aware of her now, of that I have grown increasingly confident. She did him a service, it is true, but he is not one to be grateful for long. He is not one to be trusted.

  ‘This line of inquiry is dangerous.’ I look up. The man’s words so echo my own thoughts as to baffle me. Could I, in fact, have spoken? But, no, I no longer possess the ability to phrase my thoughts in language. And the girl, it seems, will not be persuaded.

  ‘Please, Care …’ She is rising, and he with her. He would stay her, if he could. Time has passed, and I have missed the details of their conversation. She is gathering papers – her notes, or perhaps his. ‘You can’t.’

  ‘I can.’ Conviction, calm and strong. ‘And I will.’ She steps away and turns. ‘You knew the old man. You knew he trained me. He trusted me,’ she says. ‘Now people are asking after him, and so I will find out why.’

  ‘First AD, and now the old man.’ She is resting against a wall nearby. She has left the keeper, but not gone far. The revelations weigh on her, and she sinks back against the crumbling brick and sits, the ground here newly dried by the late-day sun. ‘I wonder …’

  She looks at me, seated on a slab of asphalt beside her. It is dark and warm, and raised slightly above the earth. I stare back, wishing once again for her to see in my green eyes the awareness I possess of her.

  ‘The old man would say there is no such thing as a coincidence.’ She smiles a little, the memory a fond one. ‘He would have me look for connections.’

  I flick my ears forward, listening. I do not recall passing along this advice but it is useful, and I would have her bide it.

  ‘And AD showing up? Coming back now? Could that be related?’

  I bristle at his name. That man – AD – and what becomes of him matters little to me. He was vermin. Lower, even, without such purpose as a rat or beetle may have, and I would not have her waste her time thinking of such a one. That woman, however – no, I cannot mull this over now. Not while I would watch the girl and listen.

  But she has fallen silent, only the subtle movements of her face hinting at the play of her thoughts. That sadness – her downcast mouth – suggests she is thinking of the old man, her mentor, and his violent death. But as her jaw tightens and she blinks back any hint of tears, I know she has moved on. Does she ponder the meaning of these cases, the reasons they may intersect each other – and her life? Does she question the little man, the keeper, who conveyed this news? Their history would have her trust him. As well her nature, which seeks kinship and companions in a way foreign to my kind.

  When she rises, brushing the dirt from her pants, I ready myself to follow. Back to the keeper’s room, I suspect. Back where she can press him for what he has kept hidden, for the secrets that weigh heavy on this case.

  When she turns, instead, toward the waterfront, I grow alarmed. As fraught a place as it is by day, as dusk descends its commerce also changes into that which may endanger the girl.

  It is not dark, not yet, as she returns to the dockside, to the open area where the men gathered and the trucks came and went. But already the atmosphere has altered. The boisterous workers have left, seeking solace for their disappointments, if not rest, for another day. Those that remain are quiet. They hang by the edges of the open space – by the pier itself, or over by the stone house – waiting, perhaps, for a summons. For an order that will brook no argument or negotiation.

  Three of them linger by the wharfside, by the place where the barrier gave way. Hunched over the embers of their smokes, they speak softly, their manner uneasy. Laborers, ready for any task. The last of the afternoon light reflects off the eyes of one who gives us a furtive glance. He licks his lips and then turns in again. They are waiting, anxious, but the girl is unafraid. She walks toward them, openly, crossing the cobblestones where the truck had idled, head up and back straight.

  It is her poise, as much as her gender, I believe, that rouses them. They stand up straighter. One palms his rude cigarette, pinching it out for later. Another sucks the last of the goodness from the weed, then grinds it out on the damp below his feet. The third keeps smoking. It is he who had glanced around, looking for a confederate, perhaps. Or a command. It is he the girl addresses when she reaches them, her voice low but clear, even as I circle the open ground to observe in my own fashion.

  ‘I’m looking for someone,’ she says. She is not as tall as the man she addresses, but her confidence gives her stature. ‘A man of the docks. We have business with each other.’

  The third man nods, taking a drag. The ember illuminates a face drawn and grey. Not as old as his posture would suggest, but hunger of one sort or another has aged him.

  ‘His name is Rafe,’ the girl continues. ‘He works with an older man, Peter.’

  The first man – the one who palmed the butt – starts slightly, his quick intake of breath audible to me. The girl must hear it. Her ears are not like mine, but I see the rapid shift of her eyes – to the man and back. Yes, she noted the telling start but she will not betray her knowledge.

  ‘Lot of guys work here.’ The thin man, the leader, makes a show of dropping his own butt, of extinguishing it with one worn shoe. ‘What of it?’

  ‘I’ve been paid to find him.’ The magic phrase – the bait. ‘And I can pay in turn. For information, if it’s good.’

  The thin man looks away. To his colleagues, I believe, though more to keep them in line than in consultation. ‘He paid you; maybe he’d pay us, too. Maybe he don’t want to be found.’

  A laugh. Forced, but I doubt they can tell how transparent it sounds. ‘Don’t be stupid,’ Care says. ‘Peter and I – we’re working together. I know they’re a team.’ Silence. ‘We’ll make it worth your while.’

  ‘Rafe was working solo.’ The man who started at the name. His leader shoots him a look, but he continues. ‘Got a gig off the docks. He had plans.’

  ‘Plans?’ Care keeps her voice neutral.

  The drawn man doesn’t bother. ‘Sounds like someone got too big for himself. Didn’t know his place, most likely.’ The threat is clear, but the nervous man keeps talking.

  ‘I saw him – after. He was going into town.’ He licks his lips, his eyes darting back and forth. ‘A private job.’

  Care nods. Confirmation of what she knows, but also to encourage the man. ‘Who hired him?’

  ‘Who do you think?’ The thin man, the leader, breaks in. ‘Who runs everything down here? So Rafe got an offer. Good for him. He’s been carrying that old man for ages, the way he works. He’ll come back when he wants his pay. Unless he’s done a runner.’ He stops and tilts his head, his face now quizzical. ‘You with the rozzers?’

  ‘Me? No.’ She can barely keep the squeak of surprise out of her voice. ‘Not my line. So Rafe had been on a work crew, huh?’

  I hear the effort, the way she keeps her voice flat – her face calm. This question matters to her. I cannot tell if they can hear how much.

  ‘He wishes.’ The third man, who’d been silent until now. ‘The work crews, they get fed.’

  ‘There’s only one boss, anyway.’ The leader looks away, toward the stone house. He’s getting tired. Any moment now, he’ll shut her down. ‘You know that.’

  Care nods. I wish she did. ‘Back to town, then.’ She stares at the nervous man. Behind the leader’s back their eyes connect, and she holds his gaze until he breaks away. ‘So I’ll be o
ff.’

  ‘Good luck.’ The thin man fishes another loosie from his pocket, and the third man leans in with a match. Another glance back, and Care begins to walk away. Across to where the warehouses begin, dark and shadowed as the day fails, and there she pauses.

  A moment later, and he’s with her – the nervous man. Rafe’s friend. ‘You’ll find him, won’t you?’ he asks, eyes wide, then glances back over his shoulder. ‘He only wanted something, you know, of his own.’

  ‘To get away from Peter?’ Care speaks cautiously.

  ‘It’s not like that. Not really.’ Another glance. The men are moving. One looks up. ‘It’s just – Rafe’s a man now. You know.’ He licks his lips. ‘And the woman came to him.’

  ‘The woman?’

  A fast nod. ‘Right away. As soon as she got off the boat.’

  ‘Hey, Naldo!’ The leader, looking up. ‘You get lost?’

  ‘The boat?’ Care reaches for his arm.

  ‘I can’t—’ The nervous man – Naldo – pulls away. Fusses with his fly. ‘Just some boat. From elsewhere. Hang on!’ He waddles out of the shadow, hiking his pants up. There’s laughter, as he rejoins them and the three of them march off.

  TWELVE

  I should hunt, once darkness is complete. The girl is sleeping, at long last. At rest having written down her observations from the day. The night air is cool but rich, as full of life as a summer stream to one such as I, and the window beckons. I am hungry, and I should feed, the better able to accompany the girl when once again she rises.

  But although I am a beast, a creature of appetite and no remorse, I sit here. I am no longer subject to the anxieties of men, but there is much I would understand. Too much, and I am confused.

  This woman – Augusta – is a puzzle. On the face of it, her quest could be simple enough. She sought a man and hired an eager lad on the docks. When he failed – for her appearance here implied he did – she sought another, a more experienced seeker. Care, who now sleeps here by me.

  I would not have her fret over his fate. His subsequent disappearance may be of no great significance. It is likely that, as is the custom, he received an advance payment, on commission of the job. Perhaps he did not care to share his earnings with his former partner. Perhaps he is on the job still and will resurface once his task is complete or he has given up. Discounting the man Peter’s concern, there is no evidence of misadventure. Yet such stories end badly more often than not, and the bow-legged man did not appear to be faking his distress.

  This does not prove his innocence. Indeed, the events on the wharf suggest otherwise. His appearance by the body of the man known as AD may be dismissed as happenstance. The former gang leader was trouble, and such mischief as he was wont to involve himself in can readily be found near where the man Peter works. But both his bearing and his affect suggest otherwise, as he lingered, ill at ease, by the meeting place of those in power. And it was he, not his missing colleague, who had cash to spare – albeit for a seemingly benevolent enterprise.

  No, I do not trust that man and would that Care had queried him further before she took his commission. But still, it is that woman who bothers me. And although the girl knows her client has most likely lied – assuming the keeper had little reason to deny a reference – this is not my primary area of concern. It may be that her first investigator, this Rafe, reported back, urging the woman to seek out the girl. It may be that she dismissed him, perhaps disposed of him, as no longer necessary for her search. The girl is wise to the ways of this world. She will come to this possibility, given time. She will take precautions, I believe.

  No, what bothers me is this woman’s quest itself. ‘My brother,’ she said. ‘A letter.’ And yet no letter was sent, if the keeper can be trusted. No package to aid the flight of a grieving relative. If grieving relative she is.

  The girl stirs in her sleep, shifting on the sofa. Her fingers twitch, as does her lip, chapped to bleeding. Were she one of my own kin, I would believe her to be dreaming of the hunt. The kill. Perhaps she is, though the prey she seeks is more elusive – not those whom she is hired to find as much as a family of sorts, free from the constraints of poverty and fear.

  Family. I maintain my vigil as the girl settles back, the rise and fall of her thin ribs slowing as her breathing calms again. I think of the woman who sat there and of what she said. Her brother. That name … The keeper confirmed it.

  That woman was looking for me.

  No, not as I am now, a large black cat whose preternaturally glossy coat hides the scars and damages of age. But who I once was, before this life. Before this body, which the girl hauled from its own watery grave. A man.

  Only I have no recollection of this woman. This sister. Or of any family or anything like beyond the ragtag crew of associates I assembled to do my bidding. The dead man was one once, before his interest in the chemicals he concocted and distributed made him less reliable than others. This girl, whose intelligence was apparent early on. But a sister? No.

  Near silent on my velvet paws, I leap to the desktop, the better to examine the papers there. This woman – yes – I catch her distinctive aroma. The man Peter, too, whose sweat and earthy funk denoted his status as clearly as his calloused hands. Were I still my former self, I would read these notes. Review the answers each gave to the girl’s questions and her observations, jotted down once each had left.

  As I am now, I cannot. But I have other skills and, open-mouthed, I breathe in each document, the better to capture their scent and all it may contain. I do not know the truth about this woman. And as the girl has said, I do not trust the accident that seems to link these cases, clients from two different worlds. I would know more about them for my own peace of mind. I would seek to illuminate the darkness of who I was, before. And more than that, I would understand why they seek to involve the girl, and how. Her sleep is quiet now, and I would protect her.

  A moment more of concentration and then I leap. The floor, the windowsill, and I am out. Not to hunt for sustenance, or not merely, for I am a carnivore and I must feed. But for knowledge, and the night is fresh and wild as I set out.

  Before the moon moves much behind the clouds, I have satisfied my hunger and have bathed. Whiskers alert, I take in the air, considering where to begin my next hunt – for more elusive prey.

  If I could read, I might have noted where the man frequented. The woman, I recall, had not yet a fixed abode. The breeze shifts, bringing with it even here the piquancy of salt. Of course – the harborside. If that man Peter lingers there, I may get more from him. By night, as well, I should be free to examine any vessel anchored close, or at least the barks and barges that passengers may use. If I cannot track that woman to her lair, I may still manage to uncover something of her origins. Perhaps, the thought springs up as I lope silently along the empty street, I may discover something of myself.

  Unlike the girl, I am not bound to pavement. Before long, I leave the simple road for a more direct route. Over rooftops; threading rubble now inhabited by those that sense and cower at my passing. Along an alley where polluted water runs, an outlet to the waterside nearby. And then – that gutter. The drain where I awoke to this strange new life.

  I am an animal, but still I pause, my ears and tail erect. What does it mean, that I came back? That the apparent ministrations of this girl recalled me? And who was I before?

  It is like a wisp of cloud. A momentary dulling of the moon, and nothing more. I am not made for musings like these, if indeed I ever was, more emotion than pure thought. The evidence of my senses, the ratiocination of a disciplined and superior mind. I have always been a hunter, and so I shall continue. A flick of my tail, and I am off, a shadow in the dark and as silent as that cloud.

  The waterfront at this hour is quiet. The last of the surreptitious nighttime trade is finished. The muffled oars stilled and stowed. Even the laborers who work at this second trade have gone by now, to the area alehouses or to their own rough beds. Here by the water, the win
d is cutting still, a harbinger of the changing season, making any shelter preferable to the open air.

  My presence, I am aware, extends the hush still further. There are rodents here that could challenge me in size and strength, raised up on the rich diet of the ships. Other felines, too, I know, from traces in the air. But I am large and male. A black giant of my kind, and while I feel my age, no weakness is apparent in me. Sometime, perhaps soon, I will be challenged. Tonight, however, I pass unopposed.

  Aware of the glitter of frightened eyes, I strut, moving boldly from the shadow to the open place where earlier that truck had stood. I raise my snout and close my eyes, the better to sample the air. To me, that current is a banquet. Undaunted by the chill it carries, even as my game left leg twinges, I take the breeze in through mouth and nose for full effect. Fish and other creatures, as life perseveres here, despite the ash that coats the ground, the oily sheen on the water that collects in the drain. The rich, ripe fetor of decay. A reminder of the man we found earlier, I now realize, though his corpse has been taken by the tide. And of my fellow beasts, for sure, and all the effluvia of men that lingers and will last, long after they have gone.

  A rustling disturbs my reverie, and I turn. An opossum, her lumbering gait over by that low stone building easily audible. She does not care that I hear her, that others of my kind may be spying from their hidden places. She is large enough to disregard those eyes, her claws useful for more than unearthing grubs. Besides, I catch a faint sweetness. Milk. Her apparent disregard for predators reveals a deeper motive. She would hurry back to her young, too big for the pouch but not, alas, for the sleek rat who also caught their spoor. I see her hunched back as she waddles in the dark.