Athens Ambuscade

by Kristen Joy Wilks

  “That’s the cat.” The tall, thin man in the immaculate gray suit tried to pluck the whitish pelt from my fingers while his compatriot held me fast.

  But Shane snatched me free and hauled me across the slick floor.

  It hurt. It really did, but I didn’t give Shane even the feeblest of snarls. I just ran, chest aching with adrenaline, stomach clenched into a tight wad of fear, hands trembling as they clutched Chrysanthemum’s remains close to me.

  “I’ll be in on Monday. On time, and clean, and professional, without any cats. This isn’t as bad as it looks!” I kept running. Who was I kidding? This was definitely just as bad as it looked. I was so out of a job. My prayer chart was as clear as Shane’s blue Montana skies on this point. I should have a full designer job in Athens by the age of twenty-seven.

  God had a whole lot to answer for.

  I tucked the cat pelt under my arm and slid through the back door and out into the street.

  13

  The Tandem Bike

  We stumbled down Apollonos street weaving through the crowds of shoppers and not daring to look behind us.

  Shane pulled me to a stop at the corner of Apollonos and Adrianou. He nodded toward a tandem bicycle leaning against the white stucco wall across the street. Oh, my goodness! Couldn’t this guy ever make things easy and explain what he meant?

  “Yep, a bicycle. Let’s go.” I crossed the street onto Adrianou.

  Shane stopped by the bike. I pulled on his cuffed hand, but he didn’t even sway toward me. He grabbed the handle bars and righted the bike. “We’d go faster.”

  “What? On a bike! We’re handcuffed, and what if we crashed or you rode too fast and dumped me into a nut stand or something?”

  He didn’t look convinced.

  I pulled out my ace in the hole. “Besides, it would be stealing.” Ha, he couldn’t argue with that. Although, that dark, cynical part of me that kept piping up at the most inopportune moments noted that the illegal nature of riding this particular bike was not the reason I was so strongly opposed.

  “What if we brought it back and left a huge tip strapped to the seat?”

  I shook my head. I was not getting on that bike with him or any other guy. A tandem bike required relinquishing control to the rider in front. Only an absolute fool would let someone else steer during a mad flight from cat-nappers. I liked to hold my fate in my own hands, thank you very much.

  A tandem bicycle was the worst idea in the long string of bad ideas Shane had proposed.

  Something clattered on the narrow street behind us.

  Shane dropped the bike and we took off down Adrianou.

  If I’d had any breath available, I would have used it for a sigh of relief. No bicycle, thank goodness. What if Shane had been a terrible cyclist? Or worse, a good cyclist who liked to ride fast?

  Adrianou was a narrow little thoroughfare, but it had a few charms. The street was a light, sunny lane full of broad-leafed trees, narrow clusters of tables and chairs, and a few mopeds zipping here and there among the tourists.

  Although I longed to sit at one of the small tables with a coffee in hand, we sped past, feet aching, breaths snagging in our chests.

  Shane took a quick turn, doubled back, and then tugged me down a different narrow lane.

  A black, cast iron fence surrounded a scattering of ancient ruins directly ahead. The Roman Agora.

  My feet were numb. My lungs burned with such a fierce ache that I was certain something deep inside my chest was melting with exertion.

  We rushed past the cool shade of a few scattered trees and came upon the Tower of the Winds.

  I hauled back on the cuff and dragged Shane to a stop against the cast iron fence. “I can’t…need to stop.” I pointed at the tower. Where was the gate? If we could get into the Roman Agora, perhaps we could lose them behind a pillar.

  Shane solved my quandary. He put his hands on my waist and simply boosted me over the fence.

  Although I couldn’t properly breath after all of our desperate running, my breath caught in a completely different way as his hands went around me. The man was strong and had turned out to be handy in an emergency. I would give him that much. Still, these positive traits did not account for the electric thrill that zipped along my skin where he’d touched me.

  He pulled me into a run again, and I had no time to consider the feel of his arms around me or concern myself with the fact that I’d even noticed.

  I stumbled toward the octagonal monument. It was one of the loveliest shrines in Athens depicting the eight Greek winds. Each wind was represented by a different character, and in ancient times, it was also a weather vane and water clock. A beautiful place to stop and see if my melted lungs could ever fully recover.

  “They were right behind us, Jack. We’re too exposed here.”

  I tugged him to the other side of the monument and plopped down leaning back against the side with Boreas, or was it Lips, or Apeliotes? Anyway, it was some wind guy, and regardless of his identity, I could go no further.

  I sucked in great gulps of air and listened to my heart pound in my ears. I hadn’t half caught my breath when a grunt from Shane turned my head.

  The man in the suit was back.

  One of his thugs must have sneaked up behind Shane, because he had my stalwart taxidermist in a headlock.

  The suit held out one hand. “The cat, Miss Gianakos.” I noticed that his fingers were long and delicate and that pale bands on three of them meant that he normally wore rings. He was handsome with smooth, dark hair and an air of authority.

  My mind flitted back to the police station, and I suddenly knew who he was. The businessman with the sketch and all those rings. The man who had told the police that I was responsible for stealing his feline.

  I could not give him the cat. My very last chance to achieve the most important items on my life chart, or prayer chart, rather, depended on that cat.

  Shane made a soft choking sound behind me…

  I handed over Chrysanthemum.

  The man in the suit squinted down at Chrysanthemum’s poor, beat up nose. “See that tiny splotch of black. You fools should have looked for it the first time as I told you.”

  I looked at Chrysanthemum again.

  The tall man was right.

  A small, black freckle marred the cat’s otherwise uniform face. It wasn’t Chrysanthemum. Could this dead feline simply be some other white, Persian cat? No, she looked exactly like my Ya-Yá’s terrible cat right down to the arrogant tilt of her ears. The cat was simply too close a match. Wait a minute. Was this Chrysanthemum and Petunia’s sister? Had I stolen the British professor’s frozen cat?

  As the horror of my crime washed over me, the man in the suit set down his own cardboard box and turned to address the man who held Shane.

  If this was Chrysanthemum’s sister, who was this guy? I’d seen the professor once. He’d picked up his kitten the same day Ya-Yá took home Chrysanthemum. The man in the gray suit was too tall, and his nose was too small. The box on the ground beside him had a name emblazoned across the side. The name of the same frozen storage place my aunt had used. Another frozen cat?

  The suit’s associate dropped Shane and turned to face his boss.

  I picked up the box, grabbed Shane’s hand, and shoved him into the Roman Agora.

  We stumbled into a jerky run, but Shane wasn’t moving very fast, and the box was heavy. This new cat wasn’t even partially stuffed.

  I’d lost my source of income and only had a little over one day to get this cat preserved and sitting on the mantel.

  My taxidermist was beat up and groggy and real live thugs were on our heels.

  Hey, my happy ending was still possible…right?

  14

  The Real Chrysanthemum

  I dragged Shane away from the Tower of the Winds and into the ruins. The ground beneath my bare feet reminded me of the old sand lot where my dad had tried to teach me how to catch a ball.

  It only took a
single baseball lesson for both of us to conclude that my talents lay in non-throwing, catching, running, or outdoor directions.

  Yet here I was both outdoors and running.

  The sandy earth crunched under my toes, and random sprouts of scraggy foliage grew up between large blocks of ancient stone. We ran past a twisted olive tree, and I hurtled a low rock wall only to have Shane’s manacle snap me back against him as he teetered after me. I ended up sitting on the wall staring up at him.

  “Are you OK?” I slid my hand around his neck and pulled his head down toward me. Carefully, I peered into his eyes. His pupils weren’t uneven. That was good, right?

  “Yeah, just need some air.” He sucked in a few breaths and then straightened. His color looked a bit better. Shane stepped over the rock wall.

  We hastened onto an ancient pavement surrounded by broken pillars. We passed a two story building of uncut stone with an odd roof constructed out of a number of low tile mounds. After a long run along a grassy stretch interrupted by random pillars and a stone well, we came to another small olive tree and the Gate of Athena.

  The gate was a massive triangle of worn stone blocks held aloft by five monstrous pillars. The monument had been constructed using donations from Julius Caesar and Augustus but was dedicated by the Athenians to their patron goddess. If I’d had more breath, I would have played the tour guide and mentioned all this to Shane. As it was, I was just grateful to make it to the end of the ruins. We ducked past the Gate of Athena and slipped through a narrow opening in the fence and back onto the street.

  Shane pulled me along now. He seemed to have recovered from his recent strangulation.

  The box with the real Chrysanthemum felt like a chunk of marble in my arms compared to the other Chrysanthemum. This box contained a whole, recently-thawed cat. I tried not to think about it. But the fact remained that the pelt and cat-shaped mold had been much lighter.

  Shane stopped and gave me a moment to catch my breath. He closed his eyes and leaned back against the side of a whitewashed building. It had faded green shutters on the upper story windows and daunting black bars on the lower ones.

  I sucked in weary breaths for a moment and finally came to a decision. “Let’s try to go home. They have their cat, and you only have a day and a half to stuff Chrysanthemum.”

  “What if there are still men watching the house?”

  “Then you can go to the police without me. But if their day was anything like ours, those guys never want to see us or our cat again.”

  Shane tugged the strap of his bag higher on his shoulder and took the box from me.

  It wasn’t fair; I should have carried something. Nonetheless, I let him be all gallant and didn’t complain. Hey, I don’t meet chivalrous strangers so often that I can afford to go around refusing gentlemanly gestures all willy-nilly.

  Shane was being sweet despite the fact that he was no dental surgeon.

  I would let him.

  We trudged down the street, and I hoped against all hope that Ya-Yá’s house would be vacant and safe.

  ****

  Ya-Yá’s street was empty of muscle-bound fiends and lurking sedans in dark, malevolent shades.

  So I pulled Shane through the simple iron arch into the garden. We crept past the twisted cypress and jagged palmettos to stand staring up at the bright yellow stucco of my favorite place in all the world. Ya-Yá’s house always looked a little haphazard, like a giant child had built it out of a pile of massive yellow blocks. There were corners everywhere, nooks, stairs, crannies, several tiny balconies, and friendly scalloped awnings over the windows. The perfect sanctuary.

  And here I was walking inside with a taxidermist and a dead cat.

  Things could only get better from here, right?

  Shane found an ancient pair of pruning loppers in one of Ya-Yá’s many hall closets. They were rusty and wobbled whenever one tried to snip anything, but the loppers made short work of our handcuffs.

  Shane threw the broken cuffs in the trash and spread the new Chrysanthemum out on the kitchen counter along with an assortment of tools. He examined the fuzzy mound closely, and frowned over a sticky spot where it appeared someone had spilled a bit of coffee on her.

  This cat was in better shape than the one we had toted all across Athens. But having the real cat meant starting all over again for Shane. I kind of wished that the other cat owner had been happy with Chrysanthemum. I mean, who hires private investigators to find a dead cat? Those hooded behemoths must have been P.I.’s, right?

  Shane unzipped his bag of tools, but I put a hand on his shoulder. “Wait, Shane. How is your head? You were almost unconscious when that guy finally dropped you. I mean, are you OK?”

  Shane looked up at me confused for a moment. “Don’t fret, Jack. I think I’ll live long enough to get your cat stuffed.”

  I sniffed and stalked over to the medicine cabinet. I rummaged around and then came back with some pain killers, a glass of water, and a cool cloth. Shane took the pills, downed them in one gulp, and then met my gaze. “I’m fine.” He started to turn away.

  I gently pushed down on his shoulders until he sighed and sank into a kitchen chair. I pulled up the other chair and leaned in so that I could wash the sweat and dust from his face. I stopped before the rag touched him. “Would you rather, I mean, you can have the first shower. That would probably be better anyway.”

  Shane held my gaze for a long moment. “No, Jack. Go ahead.”

  I could feel a blush heat my face as I scooted forward and gently wiped his face.

  Shane caught my hand when I was done. He stared down at it for a moment undoubtedly noting the rough, red skin where our handcuffs had chaffed all day. After a moment, he placed a swift, soft kiss against the inside of my wrist. Then, he stood quickly and mumbled something about organizing his tools.

  I remained where I was, silent, my pulse pounding. I turned away and staggered to the bathroom hoping my wrist wouldn’t look quite so raw after a warm soak. Although the burn of Shane’s kiss against the broken skin felt more real than the actual injury itself.

  The bath was pure bliss. I washed my hair and then poured in some scented olive oil and just laid my head back and pretended that I lived in a world void of masked men, cats, and all forms of taxidermy.

  After my fingers and toes were all pruney with wrinkles, I was finally able to coax myself out of the tub. I toweled off and slipped into a pair of soft cream yoga pants and an oversized man’s dress shirt in five different shades of blue.

  Shane was bent over Chrysanthemum when I dragged myself back into the kitchen. He heard my steps and looked up. Our eyes met.

  “Jacqueline…” Shane sighed and leaned back against the kitchen wall. He’d used my real name, again. This must be serious. “I need your help.”

  “I’ll make us dinner, put on some coffee, run to the store for needles and a Bowe knife, whatever you need.”

  “Coffee would be great. But what I really need is help with the cat.”

  “You mean…that cat? As in Chrysanthemum? The one that is dead, and melting, and on my counter, and dead. You mean the dead cat?”

  “Yeah.”

  A long silence swirled about the room, like leaves blown off the branch by a lingering storm.

  “The cat needs to be stuffed and on your mantel by noon tomorrow, right? Before the coupon expires.”

  “Yes.” I sagged against a tall kitchen stool and propped up my cheek with one fist. We had less than a day; the task seemed impossible.

  “I can get Chrysanthemum stuffed by then, but only if you don’t care how long she lasts. The pelt won’t be properly tanned. And it will only work if I have a little bit of help.”

  “But I don’t even cook with raw meat.”

  “We aren’t eating her; this is a cat.” He watched me, his gaze weary but steady under the soft hum of the kitchen lights. “Are you hungry, Jack? I could call for a pizza. My wallet is in the back room.”

  “You don’t unders
tand. I can’t even cook a meat dish from scratch because that would involve touching actual raw meat. It’s too terrible, all squishy and full of veins and strings and ooziness.” An acidic ache twisted inside my middle.

  “Then you must be brave.” Shane leaned forward and cupped my face in his hands. He waited until I met his gaze. His hands were wide and strong. Calluses brushed against the soft skin along my jaw, but despite their rough texture, his hands were incredibly gentle. “I saw you run across the Acropolis in bare feet, show up for a meeting with your boss even though you had barely slept, or eaten, or bathed, and you snatched Chrysanthemum out of the hands of three grown men. You can do this.”

  I stared up into his face rooted in place as though my feet had melted into the house’s foundation, never to move again.

  Shane believed that I could do this wretched, ugly thing. He thought I was strong enough to help him stuff Chrysanthemum and claim Ya-Yá’s house.

  And so I did.

  It was terrible. I shall not describe all the horrendous cutting and scraping and stitching required to permanently preserve a deceased feline. Trust me when I say that it is unsightly to the highest degree.

  Fortunately, Shane had brought a pre-made cat mold just in case things went awry. There was no time for a custom mold based upon Chrysanthemum’s actual remains. I was glad that Ya-Yá had demanded I supply her cat’s weight, because the mold looked pretty close to the original cat’s body type. Under-exercised was a kind way to describe Chrysanthemum, but Ya-Yá had wanted her to look authentic, not svelte.

  It took us twelve straight hours. Twelve hours on our feet, without sleep, after having run through the city of Athens all day barefoot.

  We finally found sustenance in the form of delivered pizza and Greek salads paid for with Shane’s plastic. I would have to reimburse him for that. I glanced over at the annoying Montana man who had invaded my kitchen and saved the day. Dark shadows lay under his eyes, and his brown hair was tousled.

  His was not the profile of a dental surgeon in a crisp, white coat and tie.