Nine Deadly Lives

by Livia J. Washburn

  After Earl finally took the plunge and sold his dental practice, they agreed to purchase a motorhome and travel the country, to have some adventures and see all the things they had missed while working all their lives and raising kids.

  “Lookee here, Earl!” said Birdie, waving her arm and fruitlessly trying to get Earl’s attention, but he was chatting with the other trailer park denizens, speculating as to just what could have happened to cause poor old Mel’s trailer to ignite into an inferno. Lucky for the other folks at the park, Mel’s trailer had exploded out the front and back sides, where no other trailer was immediately parked. The trailers in close proximity to Mel’s, however, were a bit scorched on the exteriors, but it was nothing that a good power washing couldn’t fix.

  “That poor bastard,” said one of the men, referring to Mel. “He was a nice fella and didn’t deserve something like this happening to him.”

  “He was obviously irresponsible with his gas lines and probably lit himself on fire smoking one of those infernal cigarettes he always had hanging out of his mouth,” said one of the less compassionate residents. “He coulda killed all of us!”

  “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” coaxed Birdie, ignoring all the trailer park chitchat. She had discovered a stunning white kitten roaming the periphery of Mel’s former trailer, its white fur singed and black in areas. The kitten looked over at her with irresistible blue eyes, looking shell-shocked, but refused to let Birdie come too close.

  “Earl, I think this must be one of those kittens from the litter of that pregnant cat that Mel took in,” said Birdie to the still-distracted Earl. “I thought they must have all gone up in flames, but this one must have survived. Bring me some of that tuna we had left over from lunch!” Birdie looked up and realized that she still didn’t have Earl’s attention. Sighing, she said, more to herself than to Earl, “Never you mind, Earl. I’ll get it myself.”

  Birdie quickly retrieved the tuna from the trailer fridge and put the bowl down on the ground in an effort to entice the cat. The cat wouldn’t make a move toward the bowl, however, until Birdie moved about a half a dozen feet back. Then, slowly, but surely, the cat crept toward the bowl—what cat could resist tuna? When the cat was fully ensconced in scarfing down the tuna, Birdie made her move. Not too aggressively, she inched slowly and quietly toward the elegant, traumatized feline. When she was finally close enough, she knelt down and began to stroke the cat’s head and back. The cat finished the tuna, looked up at Birdie, and blinked those enchanting eyes several times, as if to hypnotize her prey. She then rolled over onto her back, paws in the air, and let Birdie rub her silky belly, already able to sense that she had this human right where she wanted her.

  Earl, finally tearing himself away from the gossiping neighbors, came upon the scene at just this moment. “Oh, golly, Birdie!” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t you even think about it!” He knew about his wife’s propensity to be a sucker for any wayward animal in need, especially one as bewitching as this one appeared to be.

  “Come on, Earl,” said Birdie. “Can’t we keep her? She’s an orphan now, all alone in the world.”

  Earl looked down at the intriguing animal and into her seductive eyes. His heart immediately melted. “Well, since you put it that way…”

  o0o

  The temperature was below freezing in Opal, Wyoming. Earl and Birdie had continued their journey across the U.S. in their motorhome, stopping to see the sites along the way, like Cadillac Ranch, Camel Rock, a barbed wire moose, and the world’s largest jackalope, all the while with Angel in tow. Only, they called her Sugar. Angel didn’t cotton to this, of course, but had no way of expressing her opposition, aside from ignoring the name when she was called, which is what most cats do, anyway, so no one knew the difference.

  Angel had never grown close to Birdie and Earl, no matter how much they spoiled her. Earl vaguely sensed something missing in the cat’s demeanor, although he couldn’t put his finger on what it might be, but Birdie never noticed a thing wrong and treated the mysterious little creature as if she were her own child.

  Angel would purr and play like any other adorable kitten, but the usual bond or connection experienced between a pet owner and a pet was somehow missing. She would sometimes nip, bite, and claw a little more aggressively than what was called for in normal kitten play. Birdie just chalked it up to her earlier trauma from the explosion and ignored it.

  The only time Angel seemed to respond with anything resembling happiness was when Earl and Birdie would make a small campfire at night outside their motorhome and let Angel wander about on a little kitty harness. She would jump and frolic with delight as the flames sparked and crackled, and stare into the fire, the light glinting in her huge eyes, mesmerizing her. Birdie often thought Angel just might jump into the flames if they didn’t tie her harness far enough away, and would always have trouble tearing Angel away from the fire at the end of the night. Earl thought this behavior was a slight bit demonic, but didn’t say anything since he knew how much Birdie loved the little animal.

  Earl and Birdie had been enjoying their retirement and their road trip across the states so far, but had made a strategic, rookie error in judgment by coming up to Wyoming this time of year when it was hit or miss whether the weather would be nice and spring-like or still at risk for a winter spell. Just hours before their arrival, an arctic storm had blown in, bearing snow, sleet, ice, and whiteout conditions.

  “I told you we should have stayed down in New Mexico a little longer,” said Birdie, shivering as they rolled into the Crimson Estates Mobile Home Park, even though they had the heat cranked up high.

  “Oh, it’ll be fine,” said Earl, trying to look on the bright side of things. “We never let a little bad weather get in our way before. We’ll just have to cuddle up a little closer,” he said, waggling his eyebrows up and down. Birdie laughed and slapped him on the arm. “Oh, Earl,” she said, “always the charmer.”

  Angel detachedly watched this exchange from the fluffy cat bed Birdie had bought for her along the way. It was currently reinforced with a couple of warm blankets, which Angel was glad for since even her thick, white coat was not keeping her too warm in this frigid weather.

  After they got parked and organized, Birdie asked, “Okay, so what’s the plan for not freezing to death? Besides cuddling up real close, of course.”

  “Well, you know we have those space heaters for just such an emergency. Those oughtta do some good,” said Earl.

  “Sounds good to me,” replied Birdie. “Anything to take the edge off this wintriness and avoid frostbite sounds like a plan. I think I’ll put on all the clothes I have with me. You think we can get sweet Sugar to sleep with us? I don’t want her to turn into a catsicle.”

  “You know she doesn’t like to get too snuggly, but we can try,” said Earl, thinking there was no way the cat would sleep in the bed with them, even in these polar conditions. Earl secretly hoped she wouldn’t, since she had been giving him the creeps lately, with her strange attraction to and trancelike stares into the fire.

  While Birdie was busy squeezing into her sixth layer of clothing, Earl dragged out the antiquated space heaters, and worked at untangling their cords and getting them plugged in. When he finally got that done, he placed a heater at each corner of and facing the bed, hoping to get the most heat possible directed toward it.

  “Well, that oughtta do it,” said Earl, brushing his hands off, a look of satisfaction on his face. He turned to look at Birdie and bask in her approval, but did a double take at the sight he beheld. She slightly resembled a rotund snowman, and even had a couple of knit hats on her head topped off by a coonskin cap she had picked up at some sort of theme park they had passed along the way.

  “What’re you lookin’ at?” she asked, insulted by the befuddled and amused expression on Earl’s face.

  “Oh, nothin’,” said Earl, chuckling. “Just thinking you might not be able to sleep very well in that get-up, much less do any cuddling. In fact
, that’ll keep you a couple of feet away from me at the minimum!”

  “Well, at least I’ll be warm,” said Birdie with a huff, “which is more than I can say for you.” She scanned Earl’s handiwork with the heaters and said, “I’m not sure about those old things. Do you think they’re safe?”

  “Of course they’re safe,” said Earl. “What could happen with just you, me, and the cat in here?”

  “All right, I guess,” said Birdie, not looking too convinced. She then switched her attention to the cat.

  “Come here, Sugar,” Birdie said, trying to lure the cat into the bed. Angel just ignored her and hopped down to the floor when Birdie tried to lift her and her cat bed and move them onto the foot of the larger bed. Birdie put the cat bed, minus Angel, up in the big bed, patting it to encourage Angel to jump up into it. No dice. Angel just curled up between the two heaters without her comfy bed and blankets, and sulked, staring at Birdie from the corner of slitted eyes.

  "Just leave her down there and come to bed," said Earl. "Maybe she'll get cold and come up here."

  Birdie occupied herself by reading a book, which was no easy task while wearing ski gloves, and tried to out-stubborn the cat. After only a little time had passed without the cat having given an inch, she couldn't stand it any longer. She got up from the bed and placed the cat bed and blankets on the floor where Angel was lying. Angel immediately hopped in and curled up. Birdie adjusted her between the heaters so that she wouldn't be too close to them, but would still benefit from their warmth. Soon, notwithstanding the frigid temperature, everybody fell asleep.

  o0o

  Angel didn’t sleep well that night and only cat-napped, in and out of dreams of Mel and the trailer fire, which haunted her. At one point, she dreamt of herself as having flames instead of fur, and walking around as if she were a feline fire ball, setting ablaze everything in her wake. In her periods of wakefulness, she found herself entranced by the electric glow of the space heaters that were furiously pumping their heat in a failed attempt at keeping the trailer warm. The serpentine coils of the heaters throbbed with incandescent fever.

  Finally, able to sleep no more, Angel got up, stretched, and walked dangerously close to one of the heaters. She stared at the heater, a molten glow in her eyes, and began to reach an ivory paw toward one of the scarlet coils. Just as she was about to make contact, she pulled back, and quickly slid around the heater. As she walked away, the heater fell forward onto one of the blankets Angel had been sleeping on. Within seconds, silvery wisps smoke began to emanate from the blanket, quickly followed by sparkling, popping embers.

  Angel watched as the cozy blankets she had been sleeping on only moments before alit and flickered into flames. She noticed that the frolicking flames did not seem to awaken Earl and Birdie, and she did nothing to remedy this, paralyzed as she was by the conflagration. As the fire engulfed the bed, licked at the ceiling and walls of the trailer, and began to surround her, Angel snapped out of it. She jumped up onto the dining table, slid a side window open with her paw, butted the screen out with her head, and jumped out. She crept into the hoary night, never once looking back.

  Chapter 3

  “Do you suspect arson, Sheriff?” Jim-Bob McCullough asked Frank Tagger, the sheriff of Winter County, Colorado.

  “It’s hard to say at this early stage of the investigation,” answered Frank as he worked a toothpick around in his mouth—his eternal habit. It helped him think. He stared up at the blazing mid-day sun, taking his hat off to wipe the sweat that had puddled on his brow with his handkerchief, revealing his shock of red hair.

  Summer had come early to Winter County that year, and it was not what you would call a “winter county” at the moment, with the temperature approaching 90 degrees in only early May. Frank was distracted for a moment by a white, fluffy cat that approached him, and was now rubbing and slithering in and out between his legs. Frank gently nudged the cat away with the toe of his boot, but it would not be dissuaded, and proceeded to roll around on its back in the dirt at his feet. Frank carefully stepped over the cat and knelt down at the edge of the burned-out mobile home that had just recently ignited into flames that had been extinguished by the local fire department.

  “When we get the arson investigator’s report, I’ll let you know,” Frank told Jim-Bob, “but I’m guessing it’s just an accident like all the others. Unfortunately, people are prone to be a bit careless when handling flammable materials.” Since Frank’s jurisdiction included several mobile home parks that had experienced three fires in the last several months, his investigation had led him to the discovery of a rash of trailer park fires over the last several years in different parts of the country. Although the amount of trailer fires in such a short period of time was suspicious, there appeared to be nothing to link the fires, other than the fact that they all involved mobile homes and killed the unfortunate souls who happened to be inhabiting the homes at the time. This time, it was Joe and Eileen Ferguson who had been meandering across the U.S. from their home state of Florida. All of the arson reports Frank had managed to get his hands on, however, ruled the fires an accident caused by things such as a negligence with a space heater or poor handling of matches and a gas stove.

  “Well, you need to hurry it on up,” said Jim-Bob. “We need to know if there’s a maniac fire bug on the loose.” Jim-Bob was a permanent fixture at the Cozy Hearth Trailer Park, and had, understandably, become a little spooked by the rumors of all the recent fires.

  “As I’ve told you, Jim-Bob, the other fires have been ruled accidents,” said Frank, trying to assuage Jim-Bob’s worries.

  “Hmph,” said Jim-Bob. “Those investigators do shoddy work, if you ask me. Just trying to hurry up so they can take an early lunch, lazy government workers. Ouch! What the heck?” Jim-Bob said, pulling up his leg and rubbing at his foot. Without his noticing, Angel had approached and given him a good bite on the ankle. She wasn’t normally that affirmatively aggressive, but this Jim-Bob person was getting on her nerves. Frank failed to stifle a laugh.

  “Hey!” Jim-Bob said. “Get your dadburn cat outta here or I’m going to sue your butt. I’ll probably have to go get a rabies shot, now.”

  “It’s not my cat,” said Frank, “and I would advise you to control your outbursts directed at the law, or you might have more trouble than rabies on your hands.” With that, Frank walked to his patrol car and got in, leaving Jim-Bob all in a huff, agitatedly rubbing his ankle. Before Frank could close the car door, Angel had jumped in and situated herself neatly in the passenger’s seat, as if she belonged there, looking at him with her big, sapphire eyes. Frank laughed again. “You’re braver than any deputy I’ve worked with in a long time,” he told her, “so I guess you can ride along for now. Buckle up.”

  o0o

  Frank hadn’t meant to keep the cat as he was somewhat of a loner, bachelor type, but she had stuck with him and had become a normal fixture in his office and house. During his interviews with the trailer park occupants, he had learned that she had belonged to the recently deceased Fergusons, so he had felt bad for her and tolerated her company more than he might normally have done. The sheriff’s office was less than a mile down the road from the trailer park where they had first encountered each other, and Frank lived in a small, rustic cabin in the woods right behind the office. They mainly just co-existed, although sometimes enjoyed each other’s company. When Angel wanted a treat or some food, she knew how to turn on her “purrful” charm, and Frank couldn’t resist giving in. Frank, however, wasn't generally sentimental about animals, and just let Angel do as she pleased for the most part, although he fed her and took care of her basic needs. There was an old doggie door in the cabin that Angel could use to come and go as she pleased, so there was no need for a litter box.

  About a week into their relationship, the weather took a drastic turn and became cold and snowy, which was also rare for May. That was okay with Frank, as he preferred the brisker temperatures. He liked to light a nice, wo
od fire in his cabin and study his cases on the couch in front of the crackling fire. Angel, of course, liked the fire, as well. Frank found it curious how Angel would gaze into the fire for hours, enraptured. At first, because she would sit so close, he was worried that she would light her fur or tail on fire, but after a while, he stopped worrying, as she seemed to sense how close was too close.

  On work days, Angel would follow Frank back and forth between his office and the cabin, which caused a bit of snickering among the sheriff’s office personnel, but Frank didn’t pay it any mind. Angel easily made friends with everyone at the office and they liked having her as an unofficial sheriff’s mascot. She livened up the place a bit and kept the random field mouse that would venture in at bay. They named her Creampuff, one of Angel’s least favorite monikers she had been given, but luckily Frank had not adopted it and just called her kitty, cat, or darlin’.

  When Frank finally received and reviewed the arson inspector’s report, he said to his deputy, Ben, “Just like I suspected. The fire’s been ruled an accident due to damaged wiring.” Frank looked at Angel and gave her a scratch on the head. “You were lucky to get out of there alive, little darlin’,” he told her. “I’m surprised you weren’t sleeping along with those poor Fergusons.” Most of the trailer fires had occurred in the dead of night, when no one had much of a chance of escape since they were most likely sleeping soundly. Angel just turned her head and licked her backside, seemingly paying no attention to Frank’s observation.

  “You know what’s kinda curious?” Ben asked Frank.

  “What’s that, Ben,” said Frank, rolling his ever-present toothpick from side to side in his mouth.

  “Well, I seem to recall one of the other fire investigation reports mentioning that the folks who died also had a white cat. I think it was the one outta Silver City, Idaho. Pretty coincidental, huh?” said Ben. “And look here,” he said, rifling through some papers on his desk, finally picking one up and shaking it at Frank. “This report says the man who burned up in Chalky Butte, Montana, also had a white cat.”