Cross My Path

by Clea Simon

  Good! I could purr, I am so proud. Despite the distractions, she did not miss the gaps in his story – the question he didn’t answer. I have trained her, and she is smart. I am so content that I smile – my version of that expression, at any rate – my whiskers smoothing out and my eyes closing. My satisfaction is amplified when I feel the girl’s hands on me. She has reached beneath the desk to stroke me, and as she pulls me onto her lap, I relax further, going so limp with pleasure that I almost miss her next words.

  ‘So I’m wondering if I can leave Blackie here with you, for a while,’ she says, her hands tightening on my sides. ‘Just to keep him safe.’

  I cannot help it. I tense, my claws digging into her legs. I hear her yelp in pain, but instead of releasing me, she lifts me high. Deposits me on the desk and holds me there, her hands firm around my torso.

  ‘What happened?’ Quirty is standing, his chair thrown back.

  ‘I must have spooked him – maybe I touched his sore leg.’ She’s standing now too, her weight on her arms, holding me still. ‘It’s almost like he understood me. But he couldn’t …’

  I freeze at her words, torn between wanting her to understand and revealing myself. In a way, it does not matter. I cannot wrench myself free, and I would not turn and bite her – not Care, the girl who has saved my life. Still, I must make myself heard. I twist and yowl, my eyes searching for hers in despair.

  ‘Blackie, what is it?’ Her face could not be more pained if I had struck her. Surely that reflexive clenching of my claws did not cause her serious injury? ‘Are you hurt?’

  No, those brows are knit in concern and compassion. I temper my voice to beseech her, in my own wordless way. A small, sad whine of grief.

  ‘I don’t think—’ The man. He keeps his distance, but he is a keen observer. ‘I think he doesn’t want you holding him. I don’t think I should try to keep him here.’

  ‘Blackie?’ Her entreaty is quiet, for my ears only. She bites her lip as she awaits my response.

  ‘Meh.’ I know my face cannot express my feelings. My eyes may be wide, but they cannot show either my understanding or my sadness, and I can only hope she notes the posture of my ears, the low droop of my tail, indicating my obvious displeasure. I would not cause her grief, not anymore. And yet …

  Her lip goes white beneath her teeth. I raise my eyes from it to hers and see the tears welling. Behind me, the man is agitated. I can hear his breathing; hear too how he works to calm it. He does not matter at this moment. Whatever he may know or may suspect is nothing to what passes between the girl and me.

  ‘What if I let you go now, Blackie.’ She’s speaking slowly but directly. My mouth opens, as if to respond, but I hold back, waiting. ‘I’m going to let you go, but I hope you will stay here, OK? For your own safety.’

  The hands that have been tight around my body begin to relax. I shift slightly – I have been deposited here uneasily and need to get my footing – but when the girl pauses, hands still on my sides, I freeze. I meet her gaze. I blink once, slowly, my eyes on hers.

  And then she lets me go.

  I do not move, not much. Only to gather my splayed feet beneath me and to sit up, facing her.

  ‘All right then.’ She nods once, as if to confirm to herself what she has seen. ‘I think we understand each other.’

  I keep my eyes on hers, willing her to believe. Behind me, the man moves, though, and my ears flick to take this in.

  ‘Don’t—’ The girl reaches out, as if to stop him. Or to restrain me, once again. It barely matters. We both freeze in response.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, laughing a little. She does not trust her instinct. Not on this, and chuckles to disguise her discomfort. ‘But I guess this is as good as I can do,’ she says. Then she looks up. ‘You’ll keep him?’

  ‘I’ll do what I can,’ says the voice behind me. I sit as prim as a statue, willing her to believe.

  ‘Thank you.’ She licks her lips, her tongue lingering on the raw spot, and then she nods. ‘I’ll be back. Tomorrow or sooner, if I can find out anything.’

  She is watching me even as she retreats to the door, and I sit, frozen in my helpless obedience, as she leaves.

  ‘Well then,’ says the voice behind me. The man she has left me with. ‘What are we to do now, you and I?’

  The man’s voice is quiet, respectful. It gives no hint of what he knows – or how. But there is a note of something uncanny in it.

  What that is is a question for another time. And although I regret breaking my word, my duty is clear. With one leap, I attain the sill of the high window, and although I hear him exclaim – in dismay or shock – as I pass through the hangings that kept out the wind, I am gone.

  SEVENTEEN

  The girl is agitated. Upset. When I find her, half a block away, she is walking quickly, heedlessly through a city that should never be ignored. While I am careful to stay out of her sight, I follow her, and find her path is as expected. She is heading back to the waterfront. That she wants to confront her client is clear. That she believes she has left me behind, in safety, shows the fault in her hasty thought process. Yes, I was the prey sought, but those predators could turn on her as well. And before he came to my rescue, that man – Peter – had warned her about that low stone building and the mystery it houses.

  She is a hunter, however, and that fate of AD weighs on her conscience as well, I know. But despite all her training, I am ill at ease. Her pace suggests a recklessness that she can scarce afford. There is danger in that building. The men who frequent it are evil, and she lacks the acuity to discover what I have found. To scent the blood spilled there.

  In my solicitude, I would keep her close. The hour obliges. The setting sun casts long, dark shadows that help obscure me even as I race alongside her, providing a steady corridor of shade. It goes against my instinct, to pace her this way. From the curve of her shoulders, held tight and high, I can see the tension in her. The hands she has shoved into her pockets must be clenched tight, and the firm line of her mouth admits neither fear nor pity. If it were in my power, I would make myself known to her. Trot alongside her, and let the softness of my fur comfort her in her distress. But I cannot. She believes me in danger, and to see me would worry and distract her. Better that I keep to cover. There will be time enough, if all goes well, to rectify any sense of betrayal my actions may have caused.

  Not being in her confidence has its price, however. When she veers from the expected path, I am nearly exposed. It is only my utter stillness that allows me to remain undetected as she cuts across the avenue and dives into the shadow where I stand. Of course! I follow as soon as she has passed. She has gone to seek that other female from the gang – Rosa – in their former home.

  ‘Rosa?’ Care has the sense to call but softly, even as she enters the basement lair. ‘You here?’ She is alone, I could tell her. No movement to signify the presence of another – not of anything larger than a rat, at least, and even those have made themselves scarce at our approach. No trace fresher than the morning, when Care roused her former colleague and treated her to a meal.

  In the space of moments, the girl comes to the same conclusion. With a sigh, she tosses one of the rags her former compatriot has slept in aside, and collapses onto the pallet on the floor. That she has become winded by her rush here is evident. That she is discomfited, as well, by the absence of the woman plays into her apparent surrender. Although her eyes are not as keen as mine, she glances around the dark space – made darker now by the setting of the sun. She seeks a way forward, as much as the onetime occupant of this space. A direction. And I crouch in the corner, unable either to comfort or direct her fledgling inquiry as once I could.

  She lingers for so long that I begin to doze. At least, I tell myself as my eyes grow heavy, this place is no longer as foul as once it was. The smell of sweat and unwashed bodies clings to the bedclothes, and the earthy funk of waste comes from the far corner. But the acrid stink of the drug – the scat t
hat AD once manufactured here – is gone, washed out by the passage of time. Without that pollution, it is easy to begin to drift. To dream.

  ‘Old fool.’ The voice is soft and low, but there is nothing of gentleness in it. ‘Inviting pain, when you could have shed it.’

  I look up into cold dark eyes, unable to resist. I am – bound somehow. No, my limbs are held. The men … that sack.

  I jerk awake to find myself unencumbered – and aghast. But, no, the girl has not noticed me starting, here in the corner of the basement. She sits still, brooding, as if only moments have passed. But then, with a sigh, she makes to rise, pushing herself off the low nest with her hand and pausing, as she does.

  ‘Wha—?’ The half-formed word explains her actions as she turns and begins to flip through the clothes so rudely assembled there. What she pulls forth is not at first recognizable to me, although she turns it to and fro. A weapon of some sort, rudely forged. A wooden handle, taken from some other tool, stained dark by the usage of many hands. Attached to that, a blade. Long and slender, even from where I sit, I can see the sheen of its sharpened edge, the filing that has given it a needle point. A shiv, such a thing is called, and I remember AD, as he ran, shoving just such a weapon in the waistband of his pants, where his ragged shirt would hide it.

  And as she examines it, she runs her hand along the flat of the blade and then inspects her hand for signs of blood. I cannot smell any, not from here, though if I were closer, I suspect I would find such where the blade and handle join. A weapon such as this is made for use, and I am puzzled by the appearance of such a deadly tool here, in the bed of this woman. AD would not likely have forgotten it, no matter how beguiling the woman. I do not think she has either skill to have stolen or cajoled it from him. A man does not carry a weapon lightly these days, nor abandon it for a fancy.

  That he did not have it on him when we spied him, watching us, may explain why he did not choose to engage the girl then. Despite the advantages of size and age, he would prefer certainty. A weapon. Its absence may also explain his death, although such a blade would not necessarily have saved him. I do find it curious that he went to a rendezvous without it. Perhaps he had another such on him, lost in his final struggle. Or some means of defense that in her hurried search, the girl was unable to find. Or perhaps he went to a meeting deliberately unarmed, a possibility that raises questions of its own.

  In my prior life, I would apply reason to this puzzle. I would gather more information and look back, as well, over observations I have made. In this life, I have begun to accept that other, more subtle senses have a role. Some of these are feline – the scent, or lack thereof, of the drug, for example. Particularly in light of the hunger I could see too clearly in the woman’s eyes.

  Also, I wonder at the import of my dream. In the past, I would have dismissed such a nighttime vision as fantasy. Insubstantial and unimportant. But I have learned in this life that in such dreams I may find deeper truths. That such fancies may hold the keys to memory, and that this was no mere reverie. Instead, I consider it as a snippet of that last trial, perhaps, before I was discarded and left to die.

  ‘Inviting pain,’ he said. The words ring in my ears, which twitch back in alarm. ‘When you could shed it.’ I do not understand this memory, and it disturbs me, as does its timing now, in this place. Almost as much as does the realization that, while I pondered that brief vision, I have been oblivious to another sound. A rasping sound, as in something dragged. The slap of a hand against a wall, and then a dark shape in the doorway.

  Care looks up and gasps. Her hand moves quickly, secreting the knife much as AD did, down the back of her worn jeans. ‘Rosa,’ she says. The effort entailed to keep her voice steady is obvious to me. It would not be to a human’s ears, I believe, and in this case most certainly is not. Rosa stumbles forward, blinking in the dark. But not alarmed. Not even at finding someone in her refuge, on her bed.

  Care stands and steps forward, as if aware of the trespass. Or, mayhap, as she prepares to leave. And then it hits me: the chemical stench. Sharp as bee sting, or as smoke that burns and blinds the eyes.

  ‘Care!’ The one word, perhaps all that she can muster, as she stumbles forward into the arms of the girl, who then lays her on the bed. ‘I should’ve known you’d come back. I’m so glad.’

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘Rosa? Are you all right?’ Care stoops over the prone body, one hand on her bare arm.

  The mumbled response does little beyond provide proof of life, but Care has clearly had experience with intoxication of this sort. Kneeling on the palette, she pulls the limp woman over, until she is lying on her side, and props her there using the rags and dirty blanket that appear to make up Rosa’s bed and wardrobe both. The woman does not resist, appearing as pliable as a fresh kill, though even from my corner I can hear her breathing. Smell the warmth of her body. In the dim light of the basement, I doubt Care can see the bruises forming along her bare arm, the cuff of raw flesh around her wrist where the skin has worn away. But after she has her arranged and then covered – her airway unrestricted but her vulnerable body under wraps – Care draws back in surprise and holds her hand to her face. It is wet and even in this light, she must see that the substance on her palm is dark and growing tacky. To me, the sharp iron of blood is obvious, even with the burnt fumes of the drug filling the room.

  ‘Rosa.’ She shakes the limp woman, urging her to wake. ‘Come on. Do you have a candle or a lamp or anything?’

  ‘Sleepy.’ The woman protests, before she pulls away and flops forward, her mild resistance draining the last of her strength. Care begins to rummage through the bed clothes, patting the area near the palette for what she can find. It is not full dark yet outside, but the last of the twilight barely illuminates this cave-like room. To me, this presents no problem, and it only is my awareness of what additional distress my appearance would cause that keeps me from advancing on the girl and guiding her hand to that which she seeks. I realize I have tensed, as if ready to leap, by the time she finds the thick candle, which she lights and sets on the crate that serves as both table and storage.

  ‘Rosa, wake up.’ The yellow glow has confirmed her suspicions, and she turns from her hands to the unconscious woman. ‘You’re bleeding.’

  She shakes her again, more roughly this time, panic in her voice. ‘Wake up.’

  ‘I’m awake.’ The woman pushes herself upright and blinks. ‘Care!’

  ‘You’re bleeding.’ The girl keeps her voice low and calm, as if speaking to a child. ‘I want to examine you. You may need help.’

  A flash of something – concern or confusion – passes over the intoxicated woman’s face and then departs. She checks her own wrist as if it belonged to someone other. Rubs the raw place and winces, before releasing it. Her fingers are sticky with blood, but even from where I observe I can tell that it no longer flows fresh.

  ‘This?’ She conjures a smile, almost a laugh. ‘That’s nothing. Besides, I got paid, didn’t I?’

  ‘Those men, the ones in the café.’ Care sits back on her heels. ‘You’ve been with them all day?’

  A shrug almost unbalances the befuddled woman. ‘We had a party,’ she says. ‘I gave ’em what they wanted. Poor old AD.’

  ‘What about him?’ The girl is losing patience. ‘Rosa, tell me what you know.’

  A toss of her head sends her dirty locks back. Her face shines in the candle light, but in the half-closed eyes there’s a spark. Rosa is waking from her daze.

  ‘I guess I know why the boss got rid of him, don’t I?’ Pain or the lessening of her intoxication have left their mark. She’s sounding mean, almost resentful of the dead man. Care stiffens at the change of tone.

  ‘The boss?’ She hasn’t drawn the weapon. She’s waiting, I can tell, to hear what the woman has to say. ‘Are you sure it wasn’t something else, Rosa? Did you two have a fight?’

  ‘Me ’n AD?’ She snorts and shakes it off. ‘Nah, we had an understanding. I broug
ht my clients around, and he kept me supplied.’ She wipes her nose on the back of her hand and pauses to inspect the abrasions there. She is beginning to sober up, the effects of the drug wearing off. Still, she seems too inebriated to lie.

  ‘Maybe he’d stopped being so generous.’ Care is spinning a scenario. Making it sound reasonable. ‘’Cause I can’t imagine AD not cooking.’

  ‘You don’t know the half of it. AD tried, you know?’ Her words are slurred, the eyes that blink up at the girl unfocused. ‘He wanted in again. He was going to deliver, only someone tripped him up.’

  Care is silent. Waiting, I assume, to hear what the other woman knows. If she can tell her who killed the man and left his body for the tide.

  ‘Poor old AD.’ She sniffs and wipes her face with the back of her arm. ‘He just didn’t know no other way. You’ll stay, though, right?’

  She reaches up for the girl, as if to draw her down onto the filthy pallet. Disgust, or maybe frustration acts as almost like a blow, turns Care away from her onetime colleague. She scrambles to her feet and would head to the low door, only Rosa stops her, calling out her name. She struggles as if to stand and then gives up, propping herself up on her bruised arms. ‘You should think about it. You’ll come around to it. They always do.’

  Care doesn’t respond. I suspect she can’t, and as she stumbles through the door, I follow, unconcerned about the laughing woman who has fallen back on her slovenly bed.

  But if I had thought the girl would retreat, I was mistaken. Although her gait is uneven, the result of the tears she brushes from her eyes, she is driven, this one. And I keep close as she continues on her path – down to the waterfront that she fled only hours before.

  By the time she arrives at the wharf, she has regained control. It is full dark now, and yet she hugs the building, making sure not to betray herself with movement or sound. The open area where she was detained – where I was grabbed – is empty now. The only sign of life is a small fire, down past the dock. The men who sit around it cast dancing shadows, but they appear to be still, as if settled in for the night. In the other direction, muted voices betray the presence of a bar – some low shebeen where men with a coin to spare can seek oblivion. But the cobblestones before us lie quiet and still.