by Nicole
“Did you get a good look at the man?”
“No,” Mr. Lin admitted sadly. “Tall. Skinny. All dressed in black. Even gloves.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lin.”
The reporter came back live. “We also have an interview with Elsie Brewer, the other witness.”
More video, this time of a small, stout, gray-haired black woman standing on the tiny porch of an old house.
“Mrs. Brewer, can you tell our viewers what you saw that afternoon?”
“I was just comin’ back from the senior center. I go every day fer the free lunch. Anyway, I was on my porch here gettin’ my keys outta my purse so I could open the door when I see this here fella across the street there,” she pointed a gnarled finger to her right.
“From the direction of Tenor Street?” the reporter prodded.
“Yeah. Looked ta me like he just turned the corner from the alley. Anyway, he seemed ta be tryin’ ta walk fast but he was limpin’ somethin’ fierce.”
“Did you get a look at the man?”
“Naw. I don’t see real good anymore. Need new glasses but I can’t afford ‘em an’ I can’t git a new pair from Medicare ‘til next March. I could tell he was a big man, though, skinny like. White fella. An’ all his clothes was black. Even his gloves.”
Once again, the reporter reappeared.
“Police will say that the attack on Ms. Jones appears to fit the pattern of the Fairview Heights rapists but refuse to speculate on whether the man seen by Mr. Lin and Mrs. Brewer may have been the assailant. However, rumors within the department persist that officers investigating the rapes believe the man to be a solid suspect.”
“Linda,” the anchor’s voice came through, “Do police have any clues as to the identity of this man in black?”
“The police aren’t saying anything,” Sanchez answered. “They aren’t even admitting the man has anything to do with the case. But in light of descriptions given by the rape victims of the attacker as tall, slender and dressed all in black, the method of entry and exit for all the rapes being fire escapes and that the man was seen in the vicinity of the latest rape shortly after it’s believed to have happened, it does present an interesting picture.”
“Too bad the stray cat in the alley can’t tell us what happened,” the anchor laughed.
“Too bad, indeed,” the reporter cackled in agreement. “I guess he was the only one who actually saw what happened.”
Inexplicably, as if a cold wind had blown over her, Sheridan shuddered. Feeling the tremor, Nick opened his eyes and looked up at her. Instead of the vacant, spaced out look she’d come to expect, there was a flicker of that mysterious, wild, unnerving something she hadn’t seen since his injury. She shivered again.
Gently, Nick put his paw on her arm and patted it.
If it was meant as reassurance, it failed and she shuddered a third time.
Chapter Nine
For the next few days, Sheridan kept a wary eye on both the evening news and Nick.
Despite Channel Six’s insistence that “unsubstantiated rumors” continued to circulate about the mysterious man in black and his possible connection to the rapes, there was nothing concrete. The Chief of Police even went so far as to deny the whole idea of a possible suspect.
Nick’s normal, independent self re-emerged almost as soon as his mistress began weaning him from the pain medication. After his enforced confinement, an impatient restlessness seemed to settle over him, causing him to pace aimlessly through the apartment and stare glumly at her as she closed the door behind her each morning.
As the day approached when he would be well enough to return to his street ways, the vague feeling of dread she’d had the night of the newscast grew steadily into a full-blown but still nameless terror.
“Of course you’re afraid,” Pat said firmly. “You love Nick and he was hurt and you’re afraid it might happen again. You told me yourself how the thought of him being hurt and not being able to get home made you sick at your stomach.” She smiled and patted her hand. “Welcome to parenthood, Sher.”
“You don’t understand,” she replied.
“Sure I do,” the other woman continued, reaching for a second chocolate chip cookie from the basket on the break room table, “I’ve owned dogs, cats, parakeets, a hamster and even a white rat when I was eleven. Named him Hank after my oldest brother. At eleven, I thought he was a rat too. One thing I’ve learned is that animals are easy to love. Easier than most people I know.”
Sheridan tried again. “Sometimes…sometimes when I’m talking to him, it’s like…like he can understand me. Knows what I’m saying.”
“Sure he does. Our little Boston Terrier, Jack, knows exactly what we’re talking about. He’s crazy about riding in the car. If Bruce or I even say ‘ride,’ he goes completely bonkers. We even tried spelling it. No dice. Soon as we do, Jack runs right over to the front door and starts jumping up and down and barking. No doubt Nick understands you too. It’s part of the bond. Don’t try to understand it.”
“But…but it’s like he knows what I’m thinking. I can see it in his eyes.”
“They all do. That’s how they wrap you around their paws and get you to do anything they want.”
“And whenever I want something…wish for something…he knows. And it happens.”
“Look, you’re alone. He’s become family for you. Cats especially seem to understand people. It’s part of their mystery. And part of their attraction for us. Trust me on this. You’re having a very natural reaction.”
“There’s nothing natural about this,” she insisted, frustration seeping into her voice.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I…I don’t know. There’s just something…weird going on here.”
Pat leaned forward, interest and concern on her face. “I don’t understand. Weird how?”
Throwing a cautious glance at the break room doorway, Sheridan leaned forward also. Pat was her dearest friend. She’d shared things with her that she would never have confided to anyone, even her family. They had a strong friendship but at that moment, she wondered if it was strong enough for this.
Taking a deep breath, she jumped in. “From that first night when he just…materialized on my fire escape…my life hasn’t been the same. I mean, how did he get up to my second floor living room window anyhow? And the salmon. I know that can wasn’t in my cupboard. I know it for a fact. Yet, as soon as I told Nick I didn’t have anything for him to eat…presto! Instant salmon.
“He wanted a fire that first night. Don’t ask me how I knew. I just did. The next night I told him I still didn’t have any wood. The words weren’t out of my mouth when my neighbor arrived with two bundles of wood and my super’s son brought four more bundles the next day.
“So I made a fire and laid down in front of it with Nick and a glass of white wine. I complained that my back hurt and the next thing I know, he’d curled up on top of me and was giving me a back rub. Then apparently, I fell asleep because the next thing I know, it’s morning and I was in my bed, naked, and all my clothes were strewn on the floor by my bed.”
Her voice lowered almost to a whisper as she continued. “You remember when I told you about that shitty night when I had to work overtime and then I had to deliver that stupid report for King John? I ended up walking nine blocks in the cold and dark because of the six-car smash up and the cab couldn’t get through?”
Nibbling on her cookie, Pat nodded. “The night you caught cold.”
“Right. Well what I didn’t tell you was that night, after I got home, I was telling Nick about all the shit and I told him I wished the Prince would have an accident. Specifically, a car accident that would break his leg and keep him out of the office for six months and that he’d be replaced with a nice, smart boss. Next morning…zap! Not only did the Prince have a car accident that broke his leg in three places and will keep him out of the office for six months, but the accident happened because he swerved to avoid hitti
ng a cat and his anti-lock brakes suddenly didn’t work. A big, black cat.
“Then there was the dream. The one I told you about with the candles and the dark-haired stranger. It was so…so sensual. And real. If I didn’t know it was a dream, I’d swear it…it actually happened. Only I know it didn’t. But there was something about him…the feel of soft black hair and the way he touched me and those blue eyes…It was like I knew him. Or maybe like I should know him. Something familiar but not…”
She shook her head, trying to clear it enough to find the right words to make Pat understand. To explain how she felt. Pat looked at her intently but kept silent, sensing the story wasn’t over.
“Anyway, a few days later, for lunch, I walked over to that deli on Twelfth. Now I’ve been there dozens of times but as I was walking back to the office, I discovered this little store called, ‘Bell, Book and Candle.’ It deals in the occult. I swear I’ve never seen that shop before. It was like it just suddenly appeared there. Anyway, on some kind of freak impulse, I went in and asked if it was possible…for people…beings of any kind, to change into animals…and back again.”
Again she watched Pat’s face. If her friend was shocked or amazed, she didn’t show it.
“So this overage Harry Potter told me about shape-shifters and familiars and witches. Apparently people changing into animals and back again is a fairly common phenomenon in the science fiction/fantasy realm. Unless, of course, you’re talking about aliens but as I understand it, they’re an entirely different story and you don’t want to go there. At any rate, witches are not only adept at changing back and forth between animals and humans, but can also read minds and grant wishes.
“Then Nick came home late, limping from having hurt his leg. The vet said it could have been from being sideswiped by a car or getting his leg caught in something or by leaping off something and landing wrong. The vet gave him some heavy-duty painkiller to keep him at home while he healed.
“Finally, I heard on the news that another woman was raped about six blocks from where I live. Two witnesses say they saw a man dressed all in black limping away from the scene. That was the same day Nick came home limping. And there haven’t been any rapes since Nick’s been home, under the influence.”
Several moments went by while she watched Pat digest what she’d just said.
“Are you telling me,” she ventured uncertainly, “that you think your cat, Nick, is some kind of shape shifter or witch who lives with you as a black cat and reads your mind and grants your wishes at night and who changes into a part-time serial rapist in the daytime? Except, of course, when he changes into a man who carries you into your bedroom, undresses you and makes mad, passionate love to you?”
Condensed into a few words, it sounded even more ridiculous than even Sheridan had imagined. Still, it was a fairly accurate assessment of the situation.
Feeling the blush rising, she nodded once and took a hasty sip of tea.
“Jesus, Sher,” she groaned, “you really are losing your marbles! You know that, don’t you?”
“I know how this sounds, Pat…”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “It sounds like you’re a shrieking nut case!”
“All right,” Sheridan shot back, beginning to feel angry, “how do you explain all this?”
“I explain it the same way any other normal, sane human being would.”
“And how’s that?”
“A combination of coincidence and a really active imagination.”
“What?”
“Look, Sher. It’s very simple. Take the salmon, for instance. Haven’t you ever bought something, stuck it in the fridge or a cupboard and then forgotten about it? Or how ‘bout the other way around?
“Last Thanksgiving, I got stuck with Bruce’s mother for dinner. I was just about to put dinner on the table when I went to the cabinet to get the two cans of whole cranberries I bought especially for the old battleaxe. They weren’t there. I mean, I turned the entire kitchen upside down and couldn’t find them.
“To this day, I am absolutely convinced that I bought those cranberries and I have no idea what happened to them. For all I know, the Good Cranberry Fairy came during the night and took them for some underprivileged cranberry freak. It’s the same thing. You bought the salmon and forgot about it. End of story.”
“Okay, that might explain the salmon,” she persisted. “But it doesn’t explain everything else.”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?”
“Yes. If I’m being so ridiculous, you explain it.”
“Okay, I will.
“The wood. Nick was out in the cold all day. Of course he thought a fire would be nice. He curled up on the rug in front of the fireplace. Your neighbor stopping by just when you’d finished talking about the wood was a fluke. He knows you work during the day, so he came by when he thought you’d be home. And it doesn’t take an MD to know that wood fires can be very hard on people with respiratory problems. Especially elderly people. Simple.
“After you built the fire, you laid on the floor and drank a second glass of wine, which you usually don’t do. The cat massaged your back and you were tired after a crappy day. You fell asleep. You woke up later and were still groggy. Stumbled into your bedroom, stripped and fell into bed.
“As for wishing The Prince of Darkness would break his leg, to know that bastard is to hate him. Hell, if wishes came true, he’d long ago have fallen onto an upturned wooden stake or slid headfirst into a vat of boiling oil. I mean, that night can’t possibly have been the first time you wished Duncan would die or quit or at least break a leg.”
“No, but it’s the first time I ever said it in front of Nick.”
“It was a coincidence, Sher,” Pat replied, exasperated. “Nothing more.”
“What about the accident being caused by a cat?”
“Do you have any idea how many cats there must be in this city?”
“A big, black cat.”
“Okay. Do you have any idea how many big, black cats there are?”
“What about the anti-lock brakes?”
“What about them? You think this is the first time in automotive history that anti-lock brakes have failed? It was icy. Who knows? But whatever happened, you can be sure that you didn’t ‘wish it’ on him, Nick or no Nick.”
“The ‘Bell, Book and Candle?” Sheridan pushed.
“Bullshit,” Pat snapped. “Pure and simple. I can’t believe that you’d even entertain the notion of something so ridiculous. This is the twenty-first century, for Christ’s sake! You might just as well read tea leaves.
“And I’m not surprised you never noticed it before. Those little stores down there come and go like stray dogs. I remember there was a little boutique down there about a year ago. Pricey crap. Six months later, it was a dog-grooming parlor. Same thing with your occult store. It probably wasn’t there six months ago and it probably won’t be there six months from now.
“You let that writer’s imagination of yours get the better of you.”
Sheridan was beginning to feel sillier with every passing moment, but didn’t seem able to stop herself. There was no point in discussing the rapes or Nick’s limp or the newscasts about the mysterious man in black. But there was one more thing.
“The dream,” she whispered. “What about the dream?”
“Yeah,” Pat grinned, “the dream.” She was silent for a few seconds. “Listen, sometime when we’re both half in the bag, I’ll tell you about this dream I used to have after I was divorced but before I met Bruce. About Han Solo and his Wookie.”
“From Star Wars?” Sheridan was more than a little surprised.
The grin got broader. “I won’t go into it now, but trust me, it gives a whole new meaning to the phrase, ‘may the force be with you.’” She winked and they both laughed.
And as they got up and went back to their desks, Sheridan felt better although she couldn’t have said exactly why.
*
It was like Nick
’s injury had never happened. No trace of the limp remained and he jumped off the windowsill and onto the carpet like a panther bouncing down from a jungle tree limb. Immediately, he came over and began rubbing back and forth against her shins, looking up with those bright blue eyes.
“Good evening to you too,” she laughed, reaching down and stroking him gently. That sleek black head slid beneath her hand, moving quickly as she rubbed. She could tell that he was as delighted to see her as she was to see him.
“Let’s have some dinner. I’ve got chicken.”
Nick scampered ahead of her into the kitchen, pausing only long enough for a long drink of water.
When dinner was over, Sheridan went in to her computer to work on her latest book, Nick trailing after. Instead of taking his usual place on the desk, he curled up on the bed. It was as if he knew she needed to concentrate and didn’t want to disturb her.
Funny how he always seemed to know what was on her mind. What was important to her. He seemed to understand how much her writing meant to her and never interfered or complained when she wrote, even for hours at a time. Even her ex-husband hadn’t understood or been so patient.
Sometimes, when the words wouldn’t come, writing was absolute hell. Sitting at the computer screen trying to make the words come by sheer force of will. Write six words, change five and then erase the whole shitty mess. But other times, when the words flowed sweet and clear as cherry wine and she could hardly type fast enough to keep up with them, writing was heavenly. But no matter whether it’s piss or bliss, writing was something she needed to do, the same as she needed to breathe or eat. And the worst day writing was always better than the best day working.
This particular night was one of those “cherry wine” occasions. The words seemed to spill out of the computer by themselves, immersing her in her work. By the time she came up for air and looked at her watch, it was past ten o’clock.