by Clea Simon
The squeal that follows surprises me not at all. Here, with such rich fare, the mother did not have to venture far, and the would-be predator, too used to rich pickings, had not the wit to count on her return.
An almost imperceptible shift takes place. A hunt, a kill. A reordering of life. A small dark shape darts from the pier side. And with it, a new aroma is released. More rot – that fleeing creature had been scavenging in garbage – and something else. I close my eyes again and see a green place, blossoming. Faintly floral with an overlay of spices. A memory from older times. Or, no, the other day. The woman Augusta passed by here. The trail is faded, far from recent, and I begin to walk. This much, perhaps, is true. The woman did arrive by ship, leaving some rag or other detritus in the trash that younger rat disturbed.
It was well he ran. I lick my chops at the thought of his tender flesh. But that last kick, toppling a small heap of trash as he took off, did me a service, and soon I am on it, pawing carefully at its edge. Yes, a scrap of paper here, beneath the rinds of some bitter fruit that would have masked its scent. The rodent has earned his reprieve.
I swipe the rind away, the better to take in her fragrance. There is something scrawled on the paper. A letter, perhaps, or contract. I close my eyes. I fight the rush of frustration that I am incapacitated by my current form, incapable of deciphering a simple note. For if I were not as I am now, this scrap would have remained unfound. I cannot read, but I can smell.
If only that rind did not stink so. I can barely abide it and do not know its like. Almost I recoil – and then I do, aghast. Has reason left with the other higher powers of my mind? Steeling myself I approach the peel. Its acrid bite – citrus – the word comes unbidden. A fruit not common in these times, in this northern land. With a leap, I am on the wharfside, standing on the tar-soaked wood that serves as barrier and border both. One small ship bobs at anchor, too far for me to reach but not to sense. I open my mouth once more, and shut my eyes. Yes, it is from this conveyance that fruit was brought. That fruit and – I must surmise – the woman, too. She ate this fruit as she was writing. Already, I can picture it, her fingers gripping its dappled surface. Almost, I can taste it – the acid of the juice. The fragrant pulp, reminiscent of another clime.
The letter. The realization nearly topples me from my perch. This woman came from beyond our shores. Summoned, so she said, by a letter. And while I had my doubts as to the keeper’s truthfulness, my own senses now confirm, in part his tale. He could not have written to this woman, telling her of the old man’s death. Nor is it likely that any other of his loose-knit guild did either, not if I read these signs aright. For in these days of chaos and decay, no service would bring a missive as far as this ship hailed from. Not in the mere months since the old man’s demise – and certainly not in time for a bereaved relative to sell up and set sail, arriving here within the year.
I jump down from the low wall and begin to pace, working over the meaning of this realization in my mind. The woman wasn’t summoned, then, and yet she knew, as surely as she could, that the old man – that I – had died. For this revelation lends credence to the keeper’s word – and that the young man Rafe was hired as the woman descended to the dock.
It is too much. I stop and stare. The moon reflecting off the water brings to mind the facts of my demise. The three men, silhouetted against the sky. The water. Drowning. Perhaps this Rafe has met his end. Perhaps he bobbed in the rushing tide, and sank, as the girl’s former leader did. Perhaps locating her was his real assignment, and death was his reward.
And the girl? I turn away and begin to move again. One man sought her and is gone. One woman, too, though she will return again and soon. Ahead, the low stone building squats, like a toad, on the wet surface, its back to that brilliant moon. I think of the man Peter. Of the men who watched me sink, and of another who commanded – who commands still, I believe.
My ears flick back and to the sides. I hear no men, no step or breathing. Perhaps inside some answers may be found.
As I myself have learned, the folly of men is enormous. They are tripped up by their confidence and strength. In this case, it is stone that they have put their faith in. Low and heavy, the building sits upon the wharf. But cold stone will not warm them nor fill their bellies, impressive though it may seem. Sure enough, as I slip behind the building, I find a bulkhead, leading to a cellar or other store. A necessary portal for both fuel and food, its doors are made of wood for ease of access. But here beside the water, that wood has grown soft. The rodents that went quiet on my approach have already breached it, and with their passing, I find my own way clear.
The building is empty of men at this hour. I hear no snores, none of the muttered breathing that would give away an occupant. Not that the structure is unoccupied. As I made my way into the basement, squeezing through the gap between the rotted bulkhead and its warped frame and down a rickety stair, I heard the scurry and panic at my approach. Even as I begin to explore – this basement has housed a fragrant variety of stores – I feel their eyes. No matter. I am not hunting, not for the likes of them, tonight.
In this windowless space, my nose is my guide, and I make a careful round. The bulkhead, feet from the wharfside, has clearly been the portal of choice. The warmth of spices and the rich sweetness of foodstuffs – fruit and, yes, meat – have come through there. Have been stacked here, in the cool, for long enough to begin to decay. The essence of one bundle has leached into the earthen floor. I take it in, as images of some other, greener place come to mind. This basement is small, compared to the warehouses across the way. But it is private. It has but one bulkhead, hidden from the common sight. One set of stairs that leads up to the main floor.
I do not know the nature of all the wares that have moved through here, but I can hypothesize. Luxury goods, perhaps, or contraband, the aromas, while enticing, are far from familiar. Only near one corner, where bales are piled against the stone wall, do I begin to pick up a more accustomed smell: bitter, even in its current state. Stinging to the sensitive membrane of my nose and eyes. The drug called scat is stored here in among the bundles.
I raise my head and will my mouth open, to ascertain the truth. Yes, it is the drug, bundled into bales piled higher than a man. A surfeit of the substance, if my knowledge serves as any guide, but packed in oiled clothes that almost contain its stench. That man, AD, concocted such, in just such a basement, by a low fire. But even though he produced the vile chemical for trade, his end results were never so well protected. Nor – another sniff, despite the acid sting – so potent.
I sit and lick my nose. The taste is bitter on my tongue, but the suggestion that follows hard upon it is sweet. AD once dealt in such as this, though in lesser quantity and in quality more dilute. Perhaps he sought an in with those who would produce and distribute once again. Sought, as the boy suggested, to gather his former minions again, and set them to the trade.
Perhaps, as those on the wharf suggested, he fell prey to his own creation while incarcerated. Life in the work camps is hard, and few come back unchanged. The concoction here is stronger than what he could create. ‘The scat,’ he was heard to yell. It could well be true.
Only, then, why did I not detect this substance on him, on his body, even from the wharfside? It would have been readily discernible – burned for its fumes – if he’d consumed it. And why then did he shadow the girl? He could not think she would return to do his bidding. And, if an addict, he would not bother seeking revenge. No, I lick my nose again – its dampness vulnerable to the biting, acrid air – there is more here than a simple tale of greed or of addiction. It is a riddle that I have yet to solve.
Perhaps it does not matter. Like so much of the commerce that survives these days, this trade is evil and serves, no doubt, that one master who commands these docks. Whatever the dead man’s part, I would not have the girl involved. Would staunch her curiosity about her onetime patron. I am not easy in his death, less so in the final actions of his life. But I
would keep her from this store, from mixing any further in this corrupt trade.
I sneeze, the slight sound startling in the silence of the cellar. I salve my nose once more and blink. Despite its careful packaging the fumes are harsh to one as sensitive as I; their effect grows with time in this enclosed space. Time to move on. Ears alert to dangers, I make my way up the wooden stairs and, using the flat of my head as another would his hand, I push the door aside.
Another scent, as well as welcome, fresher air. The onion funk of sweat and dirt. Yes – there it is. The one trace I had expected. That man Peter. I did not sense him in the basement, although it is possible that any tracks there have been covered by the noxious bales. But here – on the ground floor – for certain. And other smells as well.
Smoke, ash, and the heavy spice of tobacco. An office, then, I surmise, looking around. The moon’s glow through the windows illuminates one large desk composed of heavy wood, as well as the tall metal cabinets that I once would have opened with ease. Nothing for it now, I am left to sniff at their base. The feet that stood here were cleaner than those below, and they were shod in leather, albeit of a dry and friable kind. Clerks, then, and not management, but still a step above the basement, in every sense.
In search of something more, I leap upon the desk – and nearly come to harm. The surface I have landed on is piled with paper, slick and cheap. Slick as well with wear, I realize as I bend to taste its essence. The tang of sweat and blood and – clearly – fear are on these pages. Not from the hand that wrote upon them. Although I cannot read, my eyes are not so dim as to mistake the even scribblings of some nameless clerk for something panicked. No, these pages must bear witness. Testimony, the word comes to me. They sit awaiting action or dismissal, I suspect. For certain, they suggest that violence has been done.
This does not bode well, and I continue my rounds, seeking all the while the distinctive odor of that one man, Care’s client. He was here, at least in passing. His feet stepped on this carpet, his hand sweated on this banister climbing to the second floor. And others too. And while I would not have her risk an inquiry, I cannot resist. I climb up to the landing and take stock.
This floor is different, private. A flight above the clerks below, but Peter has been here. This carpet, richer than the one below, is worn with pacing, though not his. He stood quiet, waiting, before a door. As silent in his way as the borers in the walls. My senses are acute enough to detect his presence. His sweat. Fear, again. I recall his mien and bearing, when I saw him on the wharf. He was worried, I believe. Chewing over some turn of fate that did not please him, but, I suspect, that he did not control. I can picture him, here, called upon to wait. It would be an anxious time for him, and I doubt he would have the capacity to refuse whatever task he was called upon to do. A laborer picked from the dock. Older, and now alone, his partner missing. What would his worth be to one of the great of this world?
A slip and scuttle behind the wainscoting calls to mind the quarry I sought earlier. This would be predation of another sort, the man set loose. As hunter? Or as bait? I would find out more.
No men are here, not even on this upper floor. I would hear them, even were they sleeping or at rest. Men cannot be silent, I have learned. I should have known, of course. Unbidden, a dream – no, a memory – comes to me. I am crouched behind a bushel. Contraband, an evil-smelling drug, less refined and less well packaged than the bales below. It should have hidden me from sight, as its odor, now, nearly covers my trail. But I was a man, then, and my confidence my undoing. I had been lured to that place and was expected. And despite my efforts at silence and at stealth, I was exposed and dragged forth to what I know now was my death. I had been careful, to a degree that most are not, and yet my caution did not suffice.
An image of the man AD enters my head unbidden. He, too, is part of this. Was he part of the greater scheme, when I was so entrapped? Could he have been here? I raise my nose and take the air. It is no use. The stench I identify with him – the acrid burn of that drug – has faded. And yet … there is something of him, here, or in the air. A dream, perhaps. A memory. Another trap? No, there is no man here. I would surely be aware.
I peer upward at the brass hardware on the door above me. A lock, perhaps, at any rate a knob. I stretch and reach, my claws raking the surface, but they can gain no purchase, and the leather of my paw pads slides on the metal. Locked or no, I cannot open it. This, then, is the trade-off. A simple entry is denied to me, but perhaps, with scent and sound I do not need to step within to know …
I am a large cat, and not as agile as I may once have been. Still, I can press myself near as flat as any of my kind and do so now, my legs splayed out ungainly on the carpet, my snout to the bottom of the door. I am in luck. The building is stone and solid, but it is old. The settling that has set the bulkhead ajar and made it vulnerable to damp and teeth has forced the door off true. The gap allows for air to flow and even, yes, my paw. I reach under to see what I may find and, flexing with my claws, feel fiber begin to tear.
More carpet? I bury my face in the threads that I have retrieved. Yes, likely. A floor covering of some once-rich stuff, but it is old; it came away easily under my talon. It speaks of age and wear and unclean habits: mud and dung and tobacco ash. And something else. I reach again, paw flexing as I stretch to touch, to grab. More fibers. They catch in my claws. I fight the urge to jerk my limb back and instead, stretch further. Grains – soil, perhaps, or something fouler. Sand, maybe, from the nearby shore. My attempt brings more than fibers, though. I have loosened other substances, long trampled into the rug. I pull back my paw and nose it, taking in the tracks of men and trade, the waterfront and all its wares. And something else, both sharp and familiar that makes me bare my teeth. The iron tang of blood was spilled in that room, and although it has cooled, to my discerning tongue it still tastes fresh.
THIRTEEN
I am back before first light. Back by her side, as she sleeps on the couch.
I have the drunkard to thank. It was he who left the door ajar, a piece of broken brick securing it while he went to relieve himself in the alley beyond. He was returning as I slipped in and up the stairs, but he took no more notice of me than of the rats in the alley. It was a moment’s work to ascend the stairs and to insinuate myself through the space where the door does not close tight. I leap soundlessly to the arm of the sofa and lean down to sniff her sweet and easy breath. Her slumber is dreamless, and this I am grateful for as well. As I finished my perusal of the building by the wharf and on my silent trek back, I had become concerned. Afraid of what her own inner turmoil might prompt her to, and I am relieved to find her here, lost in the oblivion of sleep.
I myself am far from slumber and settle on the sofa’s arm to think. That blood was human. I tuck my forefeet beneath my breast on that thought, as if I, too, could still feel the chill of death. I cannot be certain, but proximity in time and place would suggest that the scarred and scrawny convict – AD – was its source.
Once again, I find myself regretting the hesitation that kept me from descending with the girl. From examining the corpse that lay there broken. Useless emotion, regret, and I flick my tail to dispel it. Such remnants of my human life recur with annoying regularity, and I do not doubt that that woman’s appearance has provoked some latent tendency, a regression better left ignored. Particularly in this instance, when my current form restrained me, as much as any fastidious feline dislike of water or of wet.
More useful by far is an analysis of what I know and what logic would suggest. A man like AD may be killed for any number of reasons. His small-time criminality alone would not likely have put him afoul of any larger enterprise, but I cannot rule this out. His capture and incarceration revealed a weakness that more likely would have drawn a boss’s ire – or, more plausibly, exposed a useful vulnerability. Indeed – I curl my tail around myself as an idea takes shape – the man’s reappearance here suggests a deal was struck. A deal with law enforcement such as
once were standard …
No, I have regressed. Once again, I am remembering another time, before this city fell so deep into decline. There was evil then, and there were clandestine bargains that linked the state and those such as I now fear. But there was a semblance of order, too. That has gone, and I do not think that such a one as that thin, scarred man would be quite so foolish as to be unaware. If an agreement was reached in exchange for freedom, for the liberty to beg and scrabble for his life back on the docks, it was made with the man in the low stone house. A man, as I recall, he sought first in his old haunts. A man he went willingly to meet, after time spent in the city. Spying on Care, her young friend said.
The girl stirs and turns, and I watch her as she settles, slipping off once again. Her face is peaceful as she sleeps. Although she has begun to show the contours of womanhood – cheekbones accented by her poor diet, a length of bone only recently emerged – she sleeps as if a child, heedless and seemingly untroubled by her dreams.
Would that her rest could always be so calm. For a moment, almost, I am grateful for my mute state. For the change that has left me as dumb as any beast, here by her side. For as such, I cannot share what I have found nor what I infer. Neither the apparent place of that man’s death, nor my conjecture that perhaps her onetime leader was killed on an errand for he who runs this city – was killed, perhaps, after reporting on this girl or on some activity in which she has a role.
As a lock of that parti-colored hair shifts as she exhales, I consider and reject hypotheses. It seems unlikely, I decide, that his body was left for her to find. The onrush of the tide, the window of discovery, all would make staging such a scene too chancy.
But his return to the city? His appearance first at a site the girl had staked out and, then, at that stone house? No, I am glad that she cannot read my thoughts – weighing links between her clients and this man. I am glad she sleeps.