Black Cat Blues

by Jo-Ann Carson

  18

  Where words fail music speaks. Hans Christian Anderson

  Moored two hundred yards away from the floating, dead man, Gilbert Harrison’s fishing boat rocked on the gentle waves. His body shook and his gut churned. A second murder! And what really bothered him was how badly he wanted to stick around to see Edgar’s face as he died. He wanted to capture all his horror as he realized he was dying. He wanted to see that horror transform the man’s features into an ugly mask of terror before death set in and he grabbed his last breath. Shit, he was turning into one sick bastard. But he couldn’t deny that imagining it brought him pleasure. Having the power to kill someone gave him a rush of adrenaline and some sort of weird ego-mania.

  How depraved he’d become.

  As the tremors in his body calmed, a warm glow of satisfaction flowed through him like an electric current, moving him from fear to elation. He had felt the edge of this dark energy the first time, but pushed it away thinking it was wrong. But he had gone beyond wrong this time. This murder had been planned.

  For the first time in his life he understood how warriors felt looking over a killing field. For a moment in time, he had reigned over the man’s life and death—like a god. Shit, this was a weird high.

  But he wasn’t evil. No, he wasn’t one of the crazies who skins small animals from the neighborhood. In fact, he liked cats and puppy dogs. Not children so much, but small pets were okay.

  He’d never thought about killing before he met Jimmy. He wasn’t evil—just determined to get what he wanted. There was nothing wrong with that.

  Assholes just kept getting in his way. No one had the right to make fun of him, the way Jimmy did. No, he wasn’t a bad guy, just a man, a real man, getting things done and taking care of himself.

  Gilbert swallowed. His mouth was moist again. His body would be back to normal soon, as if nothing at all had happened.

  But could he ever think of himself as normal again? Shit. What a mess. If only he’d controlled himself that first night in the alley. What’s a man’s pride worth anyway? Not the life of another man. There—that pang of conscience again, rising as regularly as the morning tide. He was over-thinking it. Sometimes a man has to act, and that’s all there is to it.

  He’d joined the devil’s team. Switching jerseys hadn’t been a conscious decision. It all happened in the instant when he pushed his marlin spike deep into Jimmy’s chest. His hand trembled at the memory. It had played over in his mind a million times in the last two days. He hadn’t planned to murder Jimmy, but when he had called him a “‘joke” he wanted him to shut up. And when he had said, “You’re just an old man on an idiot’s quest,” he thought he’d explode with anger. He told him not to say that, but Jimmy started laughing and something inside Gil broke. He lost control. The damn thing about it though was that even though he silenced Jimmy forever, he still heard his laughter in his head.

  Expediency made the second murder necessary. When Edgar wouldn’t tell him the location of the gold and accused him of murdering Jimmy, he had no choice. Edgar had to die. He knew too much. The second time was easier and—more fun. Shit, did he actually think that?

  He turned on the radio, trying to settle into the rock music. An ugly little voice inside him wondered what the third time would be like. It was such an intense rush, he could imagine becoming addicted to it.

  A woman would get his mind off this. Maybe the bitch at the local coffee shop, the hockey nut who swore at her customers. He knew by the way she’d stayed longer at his table than she had to that she was putting herself on the menu. Yeah, he could fuck her.

  He scratched his chin, which he hadn’t bothered to shave for a couple of days. It would take his mind off things. But women complicated things. They always did. It would be better if he kept to himself and got things done. That’s what his grandfather would have wanted.

  Gil got up and poured himself a glass of water. He took a sip and felt the coolness slide down his parched throat. The awful taste in his mouth could be washed away, but his sins were another matter. He lifted his glass to the sky, “To you, Gramps. To you.”

  Imagining the old man sitting with him relaxed him. The old gizzard loved the ocean. That was how Gilbert got into fishing. The old man had taught him everything he knew before he died and left him his boat.

  The fishing was fun, but the times he liked best, were when Gramps would sit around the stove with a whiskey in his hand and shoot the shit. Gilbert’s favorite stories were always about Brother XII. His grandfather had been there, way back in the 1920s and even talked to the man. He had listened to the cult leader’s speeches, and watched him go into crazy trances. In his day Gramps believed in the man. Called him a prophet. Gil shook his head remembering the tales. His grandfather had got some bitter when the con man deserted them all and left them with nothing. He had given up all his savings to the cause. Gone in a flash. Gramps died believing that the Aquarian gold lay buried somewhere on the islands—his gold.

  Over the years, Gilbert heard other stories about Brother XII and he’d filed them away in his mind. He told his grandfather that if ever he got a good clue as to the whereabouts of the treasure, he’d find it.

  After the glass of water, Gil poured a shot of cheap whiskey to smooth out the last of his ragged nerves. His calico cat Sly jumped on his lap and nudged into his chest. Her breath smelled of salmon and her eyes closed half-way. She purred the instant Gil stroked her with his rough hands.

  “It’s adrenaline,” he said out loud. His voice sounded different, kind of hollow. Is that what voices sound like in hell? “Nothing’s wrong with me Sly, just adrenaline messing me up.” He took a long slow breath, leaned back and closed his eyes. When would they find the body?

  Light rain pitter-patted on the roof of his cabin. A scream of terror wrenched the stillness of the night. He smiled and waited. Five minutes later, a score of footfalls ran down the docks to where he’d left Edgar’s body. People shouted at one another. The rain continued to fall. They must be gathering now, but he didn’t dare look. In the distance the faint sound of sirens began. A slow smile spread across his face.

  As the noise grew, Sly jumped off his lap and ran for cover under the bunk. “It’s okay,” Gil murmured. She hated commotion; liked it best when they were out at sea, far from land and unpredictable people.

  But the commotion excited him. He rubbed the sweat beading on his brow. Had he lost all sense of right and wrong? Aw, fuck the conscience. What was done was done.

  Scanning through the radio stations he listened for news. Maybe someone would be talking about him.

  19

  Music is everybody’s possession. It’s only publishers who think that people own it. John Lennon

  “Ms. Malone.” Peterson nailed her with his intense “don’t-bullshit- me” cop look, “Tell me again, how you’re not involved.” The black pupils of his eyes, tough enough to penetrate steel, bounced off the back of hers. “Men keep turning up beside you dead—with spikes stuck in their bodies.” His choice of words almost made the murders sound funny, but no humor lived in his demeanor. The cop was all business.

  In the thickening fog, policemen in uniform held the gathering crowd of neighbors back from her home. She could hear them gasp and complain in the confusion. Hunter, Elena and Logan stood nearby, but not close enough to hear what Peterson said to her. Maggy looked over at them, not wanting to be alone. A second murder. She hadn’t had time to fully comprehend the first.

  She pulled the blanket one of the medics gave her close around her body, hoping it would stop her shivering. But it seemed nothing could keep the damp November cold out, not to mention the terror that flowed through her blood. What a night. She cleared her throat.

  “His name is Edgar.”

  “No last name?” Peterson’s left eyebrow rose.

  “I don’t know it.” Her words started fine in her head, but when they came out of her mouth they sounded garbled and stilted. She swallowed. Her mouth tasted
like dry dirt off a road on a sunny day. “He might have told me, but I just don’t remember it.”

  “Take a deep breath.” His hazel eyes softened microscopically, but not enough to be truly comforting.

  The sound of a fog horn pierced the night. The salt air felt good in her lungs. She concentrated on slowing her breathing but her body fought back.

  Peterson slid his eyes over her body and came back to her face.

  “How do you know Edgar?”

  “After Jimmy was murdered, I met him in the library and we talked.”

  “About?”

  Now was the time to come clean, tell him all the truth. She opened her mouth, but the words would not come out. Sometimes she hated being herself. She ran a hand through her tangled hair and considered her options. She tried to keep her emotional response to cops buried deep in a jagged crevice of her heart saved just for them, but having to deal with old Gravel Voice shook her emotional baggage loose. No matter how professional the inspector appeared to be, she couldn’t trust him. He was a cop and she had been screwed over way too many times by the men in uniform to trust him. She clenched her teeth and tried to swallow.

  The damned murderer had left her a dead body. Some calling card. And someone, she was sure of it now— someone had followed her the other day. Would she be next on his list? Did he know Jimmy talked to her? She cleared her throat again, buying time.

  “Ms. Malone?”

  “He wanted to know what Jimmy said to me that night in the alley.”

  “You told me Jimmy was dead.”

  “That’s what I told Edgar.”

  Peterson’s eyes narrowed. She swore he smelled her lie.

  “Edgar said someone had been following him, and I saw a stocky man with a hoody chase him out of the library. That was Wednesday.”

  “And?” Peterson’s voice didn’t hide his exasperation.

  “On Thursday I saw Edgar down by English Bay. I walk a poodle there in the mornings. We talked about dogs and he asked me again about Jimmy. He said he knew he was being followed at the library.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yes,” she said. “That’s it.” But she didn’t look him in the eye.

  “And the next time you saw him, he was here in the water?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here?” He motioned towards the patch of water where Edgar had been floating face down minutes ago.

  “Yes, in the water.” A shudder ran through her body.

  “So, let me get this straight. Edgar met you at the library?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why did you go?”

  Shit, he was good. She coughed, to stall, hoping it sounded real. “He called my boss, Clarence. Told him I was in danger. Told him to get me to meet him. I guess you could say I was curious.”

  “Danger? No kidding.” The inspector’s mouth twisted. A minute of agonizing silence fell before he continued. “What kind of danger?”

  “I asked him, but he was evasive. He said ‘others’ would want to know what Jimmy said to me, and they would be after me. He scared me.” She hated how the words made her sound like a helpless female, but she couldn’t deny what happened.

  “Others?” His eyebrows twitched.

  “Yup, others.” She took a deep breath. At least breathing was getting easier.

  Peterson stretched his back, cracking some bones. He looked over at the people gathering on the dock and then brought his face back into hers. The movement increased the intensity of his stare. She swallowed. His lips formed a firm line.

  “Is this about Brother XII?”

  “Who?”

  “I got a call from a woman, from the pay phone on the corner of the docks earlier today. An anonymous caller with a muffled voice.” He paused, letting another agonizing minute of silence fall while his eyes bore into hers. “She said Jimmy’s murder had something to do with Brother XII’s gold.”

  “Gold? Oh you mean that guy on the islands who buried his gold in mason jars?”

  “Yeah, that guy.”

  “I grew up on the coast. I know the stories about Brother XII.” As she pulled the blanket closer around her, it made a crackling sound. She worked hard to give him a helpless expression. “What would that guy have to do with Jimmy’s murder?”

  “That’s what I’d like to know.” His mouth turned down. Did he believe her? Silence again. The cop used it better than he used words. Maggy scratched her ear. If she just held to her story, he would get tired of asking the same questions and go away. Or so she hoped.

  “Describe the man in the library following Edgar.” He took out a pad of paper from his pocket.

  “Stocky, medium height, black hoody pulled down hiding his face, black jeans, runners. Kind of like an old guy dressed up like a teenager.” Peterson wrote down what she said and then let an uncomfortable quiet deepen between them, again.

  He looked over his notes and tapped his pen on the pad. His forehead ceased as he stared at her again.

  Her throat constricted. She wanted to go home.

  “Well,” Peterson said at last, “you can go for now. I’ll call you tomorrow to ask more questions. We’ll need you in to complete a report.” He looked over at the others. “I’ll be talking to your friends.”

  Maggy nodded. Gravel Cop reminded her of a dog with a carcass, scratching and eating away every morsel of meat, right down to the bone. Maybe she should tell him more. Glaring police lights flooded the area, cutting through the settling fog and illuminating not only the detective but also the grisly scene of death. Maggy stared him down.

  “Nothing else you want to tell me?”

  “No, Inspector.”

  “Nothing about why Edgar thought you talked to Jimmy at the murder scene?” A smirk glanced off his face as she passed him. He knew she knew more. But for now it was stalemate.

  ***

  Maggy sat up in her bed with a steaming cup of chamomile tea and pulled her grandmother’s blue cotton quilt tight to her chest. All she wanted to do was sing, but Jimmy’s murder and now Edgar’s had brought her life to a halt.

  The image of the second marlin spike flickered through her mind. Who would want to kill Edgar? The library goon? A shiver ran down her spine.

  The fog horn blasted in the distance. They were socked in. Light rain pattered on her metal roof.

  She lifted her cup to her mouth with a trembling hand. How did she get in the middle of this? She turned on a classical radio station to soothe her nerves. A soprano singing an aria from Verde’s opera Aida came through. But even her clear notes could not shut her mind off.

  Too late to call Mei. Besides, too much crap had gone down to squish into a text. Deal with it.Put your big girl panties on and deal with it.

  Trying to avoid being involved with the murder hadn’t worked. Time to face it head on.

  What did Jimmy say? “Tell Logan, the Emer-Old.” It had to mean something. She’d talk to Logan and figure it out. She’d make him tell her what he knew. Then she’d figure out who the murderer was and tell the cops to pick him up. She finished the tea and lay down again.

  Twenty minutes later, she jolted awake. Someone pounded on her door.

  20

  Music is my religion. Jimi Hendrix

  Hunter approached the cop slowly. He wanted to follow Maggy, but he knew the routine. Cop first, then the woman. There’d be questions and more questions to go through, before he’d be free again.

  “Ernest Hunter.” Peterson kept his tone polite but cool, and his eyes shot “don’t-fuck-with-me” daggers directly into Hunter’s head.

  Hunter tilted his chin up, put his hands on his hips and waited. Fuck you too. He didn’t bother offering him a hand. Surrounded by light from the floodlights they took their time looking at each other.

  Logan and Elena stood behind yellow tape, watching from a distance. Other people were wandering down the dock towards the lights to check things out. Cops in uniform mulled around the corpse. Paramedics arrived. The onlookers wat
ched each other, and took in the scene at the same time.

  Compared to the noise of the activity around the murder, the two men’s silence seemed obscene. Shouldn’t they be doing something? A man was dead.

  Peterson opened his notebook and flipped a few pages until he got to one he seemed to like. “After Jimmy Daniel’s murder I investigated Maggy Malone and all her known associates. I pulled your file.” He tapped his pen.

  Hunter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Here we go again. There’s no escaping the past. “What do you want to know?”

  “Murder reduced to manslaughter?”

  Hunter staged a yawn. “I did my time.”

  “I made some phone calls.”

  “Shouldn’t we be doing something for Maggy, or the dead guy?”

  The inspector narrowed his cop eyes. “She’s safe and he’s dead.”

  A man of few words. Hunter liked that. “I didn’t know the dead man. Never seen him before.”

  “My sources said most people thought you were wrongly accused of murder in Masset.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  “They said you deserved a medal, not time in jail.”

  Hunter winced. He didn’t need a cop’s pity. Learned the hard way not to trust it.Especially when it came from a white guy. Would his fucking past ever be over? “Like I said, I did my time.”

  The asshole nodded.

  “What more can I tell you Inspector?” Hunter stared him down.

  “You got a marlin spike?”

  “A couple. Most boat people do.”

  Peterson nodded and made a note in his book. “Look,” he said, stepping closer, “I don’t know if you were guilty of murder in the past. I don’t really care. But if you know anything about these murders or Maggy Malone’s involvement in them I need to know.”

  “Maggy’s not involved.”

  “She keeps finding dead guys. She’s involved.”

  He couldn’t argue with that logic. Fuck. “What I mean, is she’s no murderer.”

  Peterson stared at him for a minute. “What were you doing before you found the body?”