The Cat Hunter

by Krishna Ahir

  "Yeah, well next time you keep it to yourself."

  "So, what exactly did Byron say about the cats?"

  "That you noticed a lot of them are going missing. And that you're trying to figure out why."

  "You think that it's all a bit pointless, don't you?" Caroline's nature kept very little about what she was thinking a secret. Drake could see her judgment as clear as day, almost as if it had been written in block capitals across the flat skin of her Botoxed forehead. It said: 'You're wasting your time.'

  Caroline was unashamed of her straightforward, and often brash, nature. She wore it like a badge of honor and, in fitting with her personality, was not one to wear it in silence. "I think that you're going to do what you want, regardless of what I say. But if it's all the same, I wouldn't be doing all of this extra work on a hunch."

  The older woman's response didn't surprise him. Rather, Drake had expected the reply. The corners of his eyes creased as he broke into a smile. "I knew you'd say something like that."

  "I'm just saying don't stress yourself out about it. Life is too fucking short, just do what makes you happy."

  Strangely enough her words gave Drake a second wind, clearing his head and helping to focus his thoughts. Talking to the female Officer always gave him a strange amount of encouragement, even (and sometimes especially) when she was telling him to give up. It helped to reaffirm his thoughts and gain clarity of mind. She had told him to do what made him happy. And right then, in that moment, the thing that would make him happier than anything else was potentially discovering the cause of the feline disappearances.

  Reaching into the top drawer of her desk, Caroline pulled out a packet of cigarettes and a cheap disposable lighter. As she shook the device, the fluid inside the translucent neon body rippled and flashed in the light. "I'm going out for a fag. By the time I get back you better be feeling better, or so help me."

  Drake laughed at the threat, only half sure that she was joking.

  Waving Caroline off, he collapsed back into his chair and sank down into the fabric-covered foam. Feeling refreshed, he smiled a little. Picking up a nearly worn out ballpoint from his desk, he began to tap out a simple rhythm on his desk.

  The memory of the notes lapped through his mind, like waves at high tide. They advanced from the recesses of his mind, encroaching more and more into the forefront of his consciousness.

  There were a lot of things that had bothered him about the injuries the cats had sustained. The similar injuries between the animals he had taken to mean that something (or rather someone) was behind it; but he wasn't a doctor. The damage may have been caused by other incidents: Cars or even falls. He would need to visit the Vets himself, after he finished work, to talk through what could cause the wounds. He hoped that there was a reasonable explanation behind it all. That the Vet would tell him that the sustained trauma was normal.

  The hope vanished as the latest wave of thoughts washed through him. It wasn't the wounded cats that had drawn him in. It was the missing. The numbers were vast. Too vast for it to be merely a coincidence.

  And he needed to figure out where they were. Who was responsible, and why?

  Drake needed to know.

  Such was the curse of the police. The overwhelming desire to figure out; to discern the nature of things. It wouldn't let him give up. It scratched at the inside of his head like a toothpick against mortar. Slow, yet persistent and purposeful. And over time the effects grew more and more pronounced.

  Righting the pen in his hand, he scribbled out a post-it notes and stuck it to the corner of his computer monitor, reminding him to call the Vet after he finished work to arrange an appointment.

  _____________________________________________

  He blinked several times, to make sure that he wasn't seeing things.

  The face disappeared from the window, leaving behind the grey condensation of warm breath against the glass. An afterimage of blonde hair remained in Christopher's vision. If he didn't know any better, he would have said that the girl staring at him looked like-

  "Georgina?" he muttered, knitting his brows together and pulling a confused expression.

  Standing up and making his way across the room, Christopher tentatively opened the door and stuck his head out into the busy hallway. The swarm of uniforms that usually occupied the junior college met him in a canvas of black Jackets, punctuated by the occasional flash of white shirts and red striped ties. A multitude of hair colors floated over the top of the scene; seaweed in a black ocean.

  He recognized a few of the faces, and just as many of the bags, from students whose backs had been turned on him. But no Georgina. If it had, in fact, been her that he had caught spying on him, then she was long gone.

  Making his way back to the desktop and clicking the printer icon, the image of the face remained fixed in his mind. Already it had started to blur and distort, to the point where he wasn't even sure if it belonged to a boy or girl.

  Perhaps he was just seeing things.

  Georgina had been on his mind so much lately that he wouldn't be surprised if he had mistaken another student for the girl. He convinced himself that it was just some random student, checking to see if their friend was one of the room's occupants. That must have been it. There wasn't a chance that Georgina had been staring at him.

  Logging off, Christopher walked over to the printer and snatched up the assignment. He took a second to appreciate the warm feeling of the paper. The comforting heat spread up his hands and eased his mind. Christopher had always enjoyed the sensations of newly printed sheets. A subtle scent caught his nose, from the fresh ink, and he broke into a gentle smile.

  Checking the time on the wall-mounted clock, he reassured himself that he wasn't running late before carefully slipping the homework into his bag and exiting the room. His plan for the day cycled methodically through his head, ensuring that he accurately kept time. First period was free study, meaning that he would have the opportunity to give Barbara the work he had printed for her. Her first lesson was Geography with Mr. Warner, the class that the assignment was due to be handed in to. If Christopher headed directly to the room, and met Barbara in the hallway, he would have enough time to hand her the homework before her class started. After that, he would find himself an empty classroom and relax. More than likely listen to music. He was all caught up with any assignments due, so it wasn't as if the opportunity would be wasted. And if he made it look like he was doing work, Christopher knew that he wouldn't be bothered by anybody.

  _________________________________________

  When Drake Gregory arrived at the Parks Veterinary Practice, there were several problems.

  First of which was the Noodles bowl that emptied over the floor (and, by association of proximity, Drake's shoes). From what he could gather from the hurried apologies of the too-friendly nurse, the dog had consumed almost an entire box of chocolates and was feeling worse-for-wear.

  Well now, so are my shoes... he thought, bitterly.

  The second problem was that, due to the staff being preoccupied with the poisoned canine, no-one was available to point him in the right direction. He stood lingering in the waiting room, checking his phone for any messages that he may have received during the day.

  Awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other, he quickly scanned the room and immediately noticed the third problem: There wasn't a single cat.

  He had started work early, so that he could take the afternoon off and look into the details he was having trouble with. Set onto the wall, above the unmanned reception window, the clock read the time as 1:00PM.

  "Mr. Gregory?"

  Stood in the hallway, leading off from the waiting room, the Vet noted Drake and waved him over.

  Dr Fetters was a young man of twenty six, standing at six foot one and weighing around one hundred and eighty pounds. Hanging across his forehead was a thin fringe of light brown hair, framing a pair of striking green eyes. His face was fresh and bright, indicating a love for
his job, however the stress of his workload was evident in the thin lines extending from the corners of his eyes.

  "Sorry for taking up your time, I'll try and make this quick," Drake said, following the Vet into his office.

  "It's okay. I've already attended to all of the serious cases today, and I'm sure the nurses can cover anything that comes up while we're talking. Just be prepared that if there is an emergency, then I will have to rush off."

  "That's fine, Dr Fetters. You're doing me a big favor, so any time you're willing to give me is perfect."

  "Oliver," the Vet said, offering his first name at the same time as his hand.

  Wrapping his fingers around Oliver s hand, Drake shook. "Drake."

  "So what can I help you with? Esmeralda told me yesterday that you needed information about cat injuries. I'm guessing this has something to do with that?"

  "I just had a few questions about what could cause the type of wounds you described in the email Esmeralda forwarded to my colleague."

  "I'll admit I was curious about why you needed the information. Now I think I know what you're getting at. You think someone did this to them on purpose."

  "Didn't you come to that conclusion?"

  "I did, but I didn't think the different instances were connected."

  "So what do you think now?"

  "Now... I'm still hesitant to agree with you. I don't like thinking that someone would intentionally harm these many animals." Oliver s face was gripped by a dry sympathy. He was used to seeing animal abuse, but that didn't mean that he was immune to the effects.

  Drake decided not to tell him about the number of missing's. If his theory was correct, someone was responsible for hurting far more than four.

  "So... How can you tell that these injuries weren't the result of accidents?" Drake asked. "Like traffic collisions?"

  "Bones break differently depending on the direction and degree of force involved," Oliver replied. "If these cats had been hit by cars, the bones would be completely shattered, and the damage would be distributed across the entire body. The fractures here are focused entirely on the legs. Not to mention, a car would cause hemorrhaging of the internal organs, and here there is none."

  "Well then, what about falls? Wouldn't that only cause damage to the legs."

  "It'd have to be from a pretty massive height to result in damage like this. Cats are damn good at falling: they distribute their weight evenly and land feet first to reduce impact. I've seen cats go off of multi-story buildings and come out without a scratch." He reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a series of X-Rays. "These are compound fractures. Not to mention... All of the legs are broken in different directions. In multiple places. It's almost like..."

  "Almost like what?"

  "Like someone systematically snapped the bones one by one."

  Drake unintentionally flinched. "That's sick."

  "You're telling me."

  "Is there any evidence of abuse before?" He was holding out on the hope that, even if the damage was caused by a person, the incidents weren't connected. There was no such luck.

  "None. Prior abuse would have left scars; evidence of old healed breaks. And if this level of abuse were long term, there would be signs other than injuries. The cat would have a poor coat, and maybe even fleas. Besides the broken legs, these four cats were all perfectly healthy."

  "Damn..."

  "This isn't the answer you were hoping for?"

  Drake sighed and shook his head. "Not exactly. It's complicated. At least now I don't feel like I'm going completely mad."

  Oliver folded his arms across his chest and sat back against the edge of his desk. His face was difficult to read. It didn't move much. Behind his eyes, there was a faint air of what appeared to be sadness. "And is that a good thing, or a bad thing?"

  "Honestly? A little bit of both."

  Drake thanked the Vet and shook his hand again. Exiting the office, he shut the door behind him and rubbed his hands over his face. A dull tingle clung to his skin in the wake of his palms.

  Walking down the hallway, he came out into the waiting room and stopped for a second at the window set into the wall, shielding the receptionist's desk. Esmeralda Clay, Annabelle's sister, sat on the other side of the transparent shield, filling in details of appointments, on the desktop.

  "Thanks for the help, yesterday," he said. His voice was flat and level.

  Looking up from the computer screen, Esmeralda broke into a half smile. "Don't mention it. Are you any closer to figuring out whatever it is you're working on?"

  "Right now I don't know," Drake admitted. It felt like he was running on a treadmill. He knew that there was an end goal to reach, a point to aim for, but for the most part he felt static.

  He watched the remaining occupants of the waiting room. A woman was sat across the room, cradling a guinea pig in her hands and cooing down at it. The terracotta fur caught the light and glimmered, throwing an orange glow up across its owners face. Several seats down from her, a greyhound had managed to weave its body through the legs of the young lady holding its leash. The dog's eyes were sad, staring at a fixed spot on the wall across from it.

  "Do you have any?" Esmeralda asked, looking up at the Constable through tea-colored eyes.

  "Pets? Me and Elaine both work, so no. I had a turtle when I was a kid, though. His name was Coop."

  "What happened to him?"

  "He ran away."

  Esmeralda pulled a face. Unsure over whether Drake was telling the truth, or if the entire conversation had been based on an elaborate lie, she looked up at the older man from her position behind her desk.

  Catching the look that the girl was directing at him, Drake broke into a sly grin.

  "You know you almost had me fooled," she said, half exasperated, but not without a smile.

  Drake found some form of solace in that. She appreciated his coy attempt at humor. It was something that Esmeralda had in common with Elaine. That and her earlobes. Connected to the sides of her jaw, they would stay exactly where they were, even after the sag of old age inevitably started to set in. Quite the opposite to himself. He figured that by the time he was fifty, his earlobes would be hanging by his ankles.

  The curious association reminded him of a song he used to sing to his niece, when she was little. ("Do your ears hang low, can you swing them to and fro? Can you tie them in a knot, can you tie them in a bow?")

  Drake was brought back to the world by the dull hum of his mobile phone, buzzing inside his pocket. Fumbling slightly with the older model device, he slid up the screen and peered at the display.

  Out of milk can you grab some on way home? Xxx love you xxx

  "That your wife?" Esmeralda asked, leaning forward and looking up at Drake, through the spider webs of her mascara.

  "Yeah," he replied, quickly typing out a reply before slipping the phone back into his pocket. "Listen, I've got to head off now, but if anything else comes up, anything at all, send it my way."

  "Do you want to give me your email? I can get it to you quicker that way."

  "Could you? That would be perfect. Do you have a pen?"

  As Esmeralda took down the email address, Drake watched her slender fingers, gripping the transparent plastic of the pen. Again, a strange detail to focus on. He figured that as a young girl she must have played the piano; could still, as far as he knew.

  "Thank you."

  "That's okay," Esmeralda said, smiling warmly as he moved to leave. "Have a good night." And then she added: "Treat your wife to something nice."

  Walking out of the Vets, and making his way to his car, Drake considered her words. It wasn't such a bad idea. To do something special for Elaine. A spontaneous gesture of love.

  He was already in Grand Stone Bay, and his route back home to Rosefield would take him past a number of shops. There was a florist halfway along West Avenue, just down the road from St Patrick's Junior college.

  Elaine loved lilies.

  Chapte
r 4

  The Technical Support office of St Patrick's Junior college was a rectangular room measuring roughly ten foot by twelve foot. The three separate workstations all bore at least two monitors, as well as a large free-standing console, tucked into place beneath the lip of each respective desk. The off cream walls were tacked with a number of different charts, timetables and images, and the high ceiling housed several circular light fixtures. Through the door that provided entrance to the office, the sounds of students, midway through a class, were often heard.

  Adam (Junior IT Technician) sat at his desk working at the underside of a laptop, with a bright red screwdriver. He had been attempting to fix it for the past hour and was so far having very little luck.

  After changing the wireless card and trying to boot up the device, he discovered that the laptop refused to turn on. Initially assuming that the battery had run out of charge, he plugged it in figuring that would solve the problem. It didn't.

  Thus he found himself removing the case, in an attempt to access the motherboard and circuits. So far, he hadn't found anything abnormal. His face scrunched up as he pulled his thick-lens glasses down from on top of his head.

  Troubleshooting was always the worst part of his job. His Line Manager hated the phrase 'I think'. It meant that he needed to be absolutely sure of what the problem was, before trying to solve it. Overall it minimized mistakes, however Derrick found it tedious and draining.

  "It's probably a problem with the battery," Dale said, leaning over from his own station and peering down at the dead piece of hardware.

  Dale's face was broad and his nose slightly crooked, as if he had been struck square between the eyes with a hockey stick (and, given his penchant for sports in his free time, it was highly likely that this was in fact the cause). His hair was black and flecked with sparse strands of solid white, despite him not being much older than thirty. He had a pen tucked behind his ear.

  "Yeah, but I've already plugged in the charging cable. It-it should have turned on. I don't know why it's not working." Adam fumbled his words slightly at the stress of the situation.