Cross My Path

by Clea Simon

  As I did then, she opens her fist and gazes at the piece anew. ‘Maybe this is Augusta’s, I don’t know. But until she comes back, I’m going to hang onto it.’ She falls quiet, her mouth set firm.

  ‘I’m going to find his friend, Blackie,’ she says when once she speaks again. Her voice is quiet, still, but suffused with determination. ‘Find Peter’s friend and help him get out of whatever trouble he’s in. Not just because Peter paid me, but because it’s the honorable thing to do. I’m going to finish the job I was hired for.’

  Mute in my disbelief, I stare up at her. If she were to gaze down at me, all she would see is an animal. Mouth open, my fangs must catch the moonlight, but my voice, what voice I have, is ineffectual. How can I explain the error in her thought? Share with her the memory of that tall man, the evil one, who tore this charm off my dying body? It was only that last encounter that taught me of his utter treachery – the guile and cunning that could overpower a man such as I was. What hope has this girl, who sees the best in one of the tall man’s minions? Who wishes to honor her contract with a man who has been killed and discarded, slaughtered perhaps for no reason but to entrap her in such a mission as this?

  With a nod, she rises, and then looks back at me. I lick my nose. It is a reflex, but it serves to refresh my acuity. I see her smile, a sad smile, and I know. She understands the danger, at least to some extent. She knows she is at risk, as was this man, and she would safeguard me, if she could. Would try again to place me out of harm. Does she see that in my eyes which signifies that I will not leave her? Does she understand that her mission is mine, as well?

  I am a cat, and I cannot ask her this. All I do know is that when she sets out, walking swiftly through the night, I am at her side. And when she looks over and sees me there, she smiles.

  TWENTY

  The girl is young and growing still, and the day has been both long and difficult. Still, having stated her intent, I am somewhat surprised as she makes her way back through familiar streets to the building that has become our home. She does not appear fatigued. Indeed, with the moon illuminating the rutted streets and the sounds of human commerce falling behind her, she begins to run, and it is all I can do to lope alongside, keeping pace silently by her side.

  I am pondering what else could be motivating her return when she slows and then suddenly stops paces short of the building entrance. Standing at the entrance of the alley that I use most often as an egress, she pauses. And although I hear her panting, as am I, I do not believe it is breathlessness that has caught her up short. She is watching – looking for something – and I in turn scan the air, closing my own eyes to better focus on receptors more sensitive than hers.

  For despite the apparent stillness of the night, it is alive. The warmer weather has brought out creatures that have spent the colder months in slumber, or near to it anyway. I mark their passing – the opossum, which awaits a litter of new kits. The rats, whose frenzied scrambling to mate and feed may just make them vulnerable when next I have a chance. A young tom, which has doubtless picked up on the same clues I have. He may not know of my presence, not yet, and I consider whether I will have to fight him or whether he will move on, when I notice that the girl has quieted her breathing. She holds herself still, but not, I suspect, in thrall to the aromas of the night. No, she is insensible to the full range of stimuli the world offers. And I must remember how she perceives the world.

  I look up to follow her gaze, and immediately understand. For all my superiority of perception, I have allowed myself to become distracted. The warmer weather, in this way, has had its way with me as well. For despite the panoply of life around us, she is staring up at the window – our window – where, now, I can see a low light moving around the room.

  Sight alone cannot avail her, though, and the open window grants me a modicum of peace that I am unable to share. A scent I know wafts out. It does not put me entirely at ease; however, as there are other strains upon the breeze, and I am grateful at her caution as she does finally enter the building, as she cautiously climbs the stairs. She knows this building, after all these months. And if she cannot go as silently as I, she still knows how to minimize noise. She keeps to the edge of the stairs, where the worn treads are less likely to creak or groan. And she pauses by her own office door. When she opens her mouth, ever so slightly, I almost wonder if she has learned to take in the air, as I do. To taste the history it carries.

  No, I realize as I finish my own ascension. She, too, is panting after the run, her pulse most likely quickened by apprehension. She waits, the door ajar, and I see my chance.

  Ignoring the quick intake of breath – the slight gasp of surprise that she cannot control – I make my move. Tail high, I push my way into the room, opening the door with my body as I pass.

  ‘Oi!’ The voice is higher for being startled, but recognizable still, and does the trick. Care bursts in behind me, all caution forgotten.

  ‘Tick.’ She reaches to embrace the boy, nearly knocking the small torch out of his hand. ‘So good to see you.’

  ‘Care!’ He laughs, knowing his outburst betrayed his nerves. ‘That cat of yours – I should have known. I thought maybe it was a ghost or something.’

  I freeze and stare up at him, but he keeps talking, unaware of the impact of his words. ‘I’m glad you’re here, though. Look, I’ve got something for you.’ He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a round object. It is puckered, much like that amulet, and gives way slightly to the pressure of his fingers as he holds it out to her. That pressure, along with his warmth, releases volatile spray – obscuring all the other traces in the room with a sharp tang that burns my eyes and nose.

  ‘An orange?’ Care takes it, even as I draw back in disgust. ‘You shouldn’t have.’ She digs her nail into it, as if to claw it, and then stops. ‘Where did you get this, anyway?’

  ‘Got a bonus, didn’t I?’ His satisfaction informs his words, as if they swaggered with him.

  ‘A bonus?’ She begins to peel the thick hide off the orb, releasing more of that sharpness. Oil, I realize, which is being sprayed around the room. It is a heady scent. Near intoxicating, and it makes it difficult to concentrate. I back up, my nose nearly numb. Was this what I had sensed – the strange taint that had eluded me before? I keep my eyes on her face, however, and see that the stench is bothering her as well.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ The boy sounds proud. His stance is not one of ease, though, and I realize that this might be what the girl – so centered is she on sight – reacts to. ‘The boss noticed me.’

  ‘The boss?’ Her hands are still. I hear that in her voice which I would recognize as my own hackles start to rise. ‘Tick, what are you doing?’

  ‘It’s good, Care. Really.’ The boy licks his lips and then begins to speak, his words tumbling over each other in their haste. ‘That thing – that orange,’ he says the word as if it were strange to him. ‘We’ll be seeing more of those soon. They’re opening up the trade routes again. Getting ready.’

  ‘New trade routes?’

  Another nod. ‘A schooner’s due – a new one, from the south, and now everyone says the trade’s going to be regular again. Fruit like that and – and all kinds of things. Not just for us, but for the outer lands, too. Necessities, like, for the islands. And, Care, they’re looking for crew.’

  ‘No.’ She’s shaking her head. ‘Tick, you can’t.’ She puts the foul fruit on her desk and walks toward him. She would take him in her arms, I think, only he backs away and begins to speak again.

  ‘It’s going to be great, Care. There’s a real chance to do something. To see—’

  ‘Why do they want you?’ Her question comes out hard, but he barely blanches.

  ‘I’m growing fast, Care. In case you hadn’t noticed.’ It is true; the boy has shot up several inches in the time I have known him. Thin and reedy, he has begun to resemble the man he may one day become, rather than the half-starved infant the girl once saved. ‘And now’s the time to sign u
p. They’ve only got like half the crew together, and the ship will be here soon.’

  ‘The crew—’ Care stops, her brow knitted. ‘Where are they staying, this crew?’

  ‘Down by the docks, of course.’ The boy scoffs, and then catches on. ‘This is my chance.’ He looks over at the desk, at the uneaten fruit. ‘They go south, Care. They say there are wonders there, and that everyone will come back rich.’

  ‘I don’t think they’re telling you the whole truth, Tick.’ She shakes her head, which appears to have grown heavy with misgiving. ‘I spoke to a man recently who was very worried. His friend was caught up in this.’

  ‘He was probably jealous.’ He nods toward the fragrant fruit, his pout making his face look childish once again. ‘Aren’t you even going to eat it?’

  ‘Here.’ She passes it back to him and musters a weak smile. ‘You’re the one who earned it. But, Tick, in the morning? Take me to where these other sailors are gathered, will you? I think there may be someone there who I’ve been meaning to talk to.’

  The boy sleeps soundly, as the young do. The girl less so. Although she pretends to bed down with the boy, giving him the sofa while she makes a nest on the floor, she is soon up and at her desk. This, then, was the reason for her haste. By the light of a small lantern, she pores over the papers I recognize by their scent as her notes. And although their contents have less meaning for me than do the scratchings of the sparrows in the dust, I can judge their significance by her expression. Illuminated by that one small lamp, her face is drawn, the poor light playing up lines of worry that age her beyond her years.

  I could stick with her, scrutinizing her for clues about her intentions. But I am as I remain, a beast. As best I can judge, she will not leave this room – those papers, the boy – before morning, and I do not know what the day will bring. She barely glances up as I jump the windowsill and quickly returns to her studies. I do not think she notices when I squeeze beneath the opened frame and leap first to one outcropping and then again, to the alley down below.

  I hunt immediately and with success. Creatures grow careless of their own safety as the seasons change, the coming cold provoking a kind of madness, and they are lucky that I am efficient, swift, and clean. But as I sit back to groom – the leavings of my hunt quickly grow repugnant to me – I am struck by a thought. I have long mistrusted the boy as weak, if not deceptive, and have recognized the girl’s attitude toward him – uncritical and protective – as her greatest vulnerability. But even if his appearance here is, as she doubtless believes, innocent of ill intent, that does not mean it is harmless. As I swipe a paw over my velvet ear, I consider my own recent hunt.

  The boy may believe he has been rewarded with an exotic treat. He may decide to share it with the one who has protected and nurtured him for years now. That does not mean that biting acid fruit came at no cost, nor that the girl’s determination to know more is anything that has not been anticipated.

  I cast my eyes up at the moon. It has sunk in the hours we have been inside, in the time it took for me to kill and eat. But I can see it clearly still, settling into the space between two dark buildings. It does not look so dappled now, unlike when it was at its zenith and bright with strength. It does not so clearly resemble the strange bone carving that the girl has found. But I feel reassured, somehow by its presence. As if something that was stolen from me has been returned. A piece that – yes! I remember – once was purported to be protective of me in some strange, undefined manner, it has come back to me now, when I would assert myself to keep another from harm.

  I am not so limber as I once was. It does not take either memory or imagination to know this. But while the path down to this alley was easy enough for even my stiff hind leg, my return to the girl is facilitated by those who have fewer resources than I. The drinker who makes his home under the stair is cautious, and within an hour he has slipped out again, leaving a brick in place to defeat the simple latch. Even by daylight, I am no more than a shade, when I will it, and pass by him easily as he relieves himself. A slip of darkness in the night, a shadow that makes its way up the front stoop toward the opened door.

  ‘Hey!’ The voice startles me, and I freeze, a whisker’s length from that brick. ‘You – I don’t know what to call you.’

  Ever so slowly, I turn, aware as is every hunter of how movement can betray one.

  ‘You!’ Across the street, an answering movement. An arm, beckoning. That voice – the whisper is familiar, though not of recent vintage. If it were a voice, I think, I could place it. I hunker down, staring through the dark for surely my sight will match or better that of any human eyes.

  The drunkard wobbles back, his mission in the alley done, and I relax. Of course. It was he who was hailed so. One person – a woman hoping for custom, I believe – to another. A woman of the night, most likely, seeking a client or, in these foul times, merely shelter and some warmth.

  But as he makes his unsteady way back to the stoop where I now cower, pressed against the topmost step, I hear again a hiss. A summons. ‘Please.’ A whispered plea. And when the drinker turns, with stumbling step as the movement threatens to topple him, the voice – if voice it is – falls silent. The figure retreats slowly, and disappears. The man blinks and shakes his head. I can smell from here how soused he is, and know from observation that he most likely doubts his own perceptions. I back carefully away as he staggers up the steps and pulls the door wide. He is too close for comfort. His careless feet could do me injury, even if he did not mean me harm, and I draw back.

  This creature – this woman – I could follow her. For whether she did indeed summon me or not, she holds some mystery that I would know. That last syllable, pleading, betrayed her as Care’s client, Augusta. The one she seeks, and who has lied about her purpose and her origins, arriving here before the prescribed date and seeking not the girl, but – can it be? – me.

  I raise my head to catch her perfume. Her warmth – a bit of spice – is fading. Only then do I recall my own foreboding, and how vulnerable the girl may be. The drunkard has passed by me and now kicks the brick away. But in his tipsy clumsiness, he has thrown the door open wider than needs be. It is only now swinging to its close and I make my move. The door clicks closed a hair’s breadth behind my tail, and I am in. The man has headed for his nest and so I race up the stairs and find my way inside our battered door. The smell of the boy’s strange offering has dissipated, leaving only an odd bitter aftertaste. The girl is at her desk still. But her head is on those papers now, and her breathing, deep and even, matches that of the boy upon the couch.

  I do not understand how she can sleep so soundly with that stink so near at hand. But she stays this way till morning, while I, on guard atop the windowsill, ponder the mysteries of this city and what the day will bring.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘No.’ The boy is firm. ‘It’s men only. Besides, AD’s been hanging around.’

  ‘AD?’ She pauses. The boy will hear soon enough. They are talking, the two children. And I – well, I must have drifted off and now stretch in the warm of the morning sun.

  ‘Look, Tick, I’m not worried about AD.’ The girl stands over her desk, shuffling through papers. She appears to be looking at them – sorting through them – but I suspect it is misdirection, an attempt to distract the boy from the import of her request. ‘Just tell me where the crew is being mustered.’

  ‘No, Care.’ He shakes his head. He has washed, after a fashion – the girl has seen to that – and now dons his clothes again: worn pants, a patched shirt. He takes the wool cap from a pocket and then shoves it back again, mindful, perhaps of her generosity. ‘You don’t get it.’

  ‘Tick, this is what I do.’ She looks up from the papers with a faint smile. Pride tempered with affection. ‘I find people, and I need to find this guy, Rafe. And if men are being rounded up for the ships, then I’m running out of time. He’s in danger.’

  Tick doesn’t return the smile. ‘Care, you don’t get
it, do you? You’re the one in danger. I told you, AD is looking for you.’

  ‘Oh, Tick.’ She pauses, weighing her words. ‘I don’t have to – we don’t have to worry about AD anymore. AD’s gone, Tick. He’s dead.’

  His eyes widen. ‘Care – did you?’

  ‘No.’ She almost laughs, although her voice is sad. ‘I found him, though.’

  ‘And – you’re sure?’ He leans in. Clearly, the scrawny gang leader still looms large in his imagination.

  She nods, her mouth set in a grim line. Her eyes are distant, remembering.

  ‘Do you know who did for him?’ The boy, his brow furrowed, sounds older than his years.

  ‘Could have been anyone,’ she says, with a shrug, and returns to those papers. ‘Another dealer. Someone he ripped off.’ She pauses. Frowns as she flips one sheet and shakes her head. ‘Maybe one of the old crew.’

  ‘No.’ The boy looks thoughtful. ‘None of them would. He was protected, Care. He was on a job. A job for the boss.’

  She looks up at that, her eyes focused on the boy. ‘What do you mean, Tick?’ I know she’s thinking about what Rosa said, about how nobody escapes without help. Is she remembering the shiv? Yes, she must be.

  Another shake of the head. Though whether he doesn’t know or won’t tell is unclear.

  ‘Tick?’ I can hear the effort she is using to hold her voice steady.

  ‘Look, I told you to watch out for him.’ The words seem to pain him. ‘I knew he was looking for you. Asking about you – about who you were spending time with.’

  ‘Because of the bust?’

  Another fast shake. ‘I don’t think so. Not that he wasn’t angry, but it was something more. He was asking about what you were doing. Who you were seeing. If there was someone helping you, you know?’

  ‘Helping me?’ Her voice has gone soft.

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. The word comes out in a rush, as if he is relieved to finally give up the secret. ‘Someone who was connected with the old man.’