The Cat Hunter

by Krishna Ahir

  As soon as Drake clicked his seatbelt in place, Harold sped down the road, weaving in and out around parked cars. Stunned by the speed of the DCI's driving, he flattened back in his seat and grabbed hold of the door handle. Perhaps influenced by his superior's age, at just over sixty years old, Drake's perception of Harold did not include the notion that he was a particularly fast or aggressive driver. The current situation, however, forced him to re-evaluate his views. He wondered, for a moment, what else he had mistakenly judged Harold on.

  Quickly looking around the inside of the car, Drake's curiosity motivated him to search out details about the DCI's life. The only thing of substance he found was a hanging picture, dangling from beneath the rear view mirror. Sealed inside plastic and smiling down at him, the faces of a young woman and two little boys swung back and forth through the air. Two of them had the same nose as his superior, and all of them bore identical mahogany eyes.

  "So this note," Harold said, cutting into his attention with a swift stroke of his voice, "and how it matches one of the reports. What's your theory? What do you think it's telling us? I'm trusting you on this one, so you need to give me everything. And don't worry... When this breaks and we catch them, if your theory is what leads us there, you're getting full credit. McIrvin be damned, if you earn it you're getting it."

  His words stunned Drake. Never did he expect Harold to be so accommodating. He knew that the DCI appreciated a good work ethic and results, but the offer to give him full credit for closing the case came completely out of left field.

  Scrambling, he tried to organize his thoughts and theories into a coherent sentence. "Okay, basically-"

  "No, not basically," Harold cut in. "Give me everything. Don't scrimp the details or simplify it."

  "Okay... What I'm thinking is: Whoever wrote that note and put it through Christopher's door also filed a report about a missing cat. The handwriting is far too detailed and specific; not many people write like that. Calligraphy like that, you need to be trained in."

  "So why would our unsub file a missing cat report in the first place?" the DCI asked, playing the devil's advocate. "Maybe this person just happened to have lost a cat, and also just happened to be an admirer of this Christopher boy? Stranger things have happened. What makes you so sure there's a connection?"

  Drake didn't understand the use of the term 'unsub', but he replied all the same. "The note was passed through the door on the same day he found the corpses. The timing is too suspicious; it's why we took the note in as evidence, in the first place. It had to have been from the Cat Killer. As for the missing report... They wrote it to throw us off their trail. After all, why would we investigate someone who has done that? Logic would dictate that the killer would want to take attention away from him, not draw more onto them... And that's exactly why they did it. To throw us off their trail."

  A proud smile touched Harold's lips. "So why send the note to Christopher in the first place? If they're as forward-thinking as you claim, they must have realized that we would be able to match the handwriting to the report."

  "Not necessarily," Drake replied, determination burning in his chest as he stared out of the drowned windshield at the nightlife of Grand Stone Bay City Centre. "Either they couldn't help himself, and had to send it, or... Or they didn't expect Christopher to keep the note."

  "So..." Harold said, momentarily taking his eyes off of the road to stare at Drake. "What are we expecting to find, when we get back to the station?"

  Drake broke into a confident smile. "A missing cat report, written by our killer... Complete with a name and address."

  Chapter 26

  Looking down at Christopher, bound to the chair, Veronica broke into her best estimation of what a smile should look like. Given her mutilated mouth, however, this was no easy task. Her bloody lips snagged against the jagged enamel of her broken teeth, further ripping open the torn flesh. She felt a warm dribble of blood roll down her chin, drip into the air, and splash against her shirt.

  Catching his gaze, a nervous wave of passion undulated through her body. Her heart fluttered into a fast rhythm, the sound of blood ululating in her ears like the distant cry of night birds. A shiver of pleasure caught the tempo and rippled under her skin, causing her hand holding the knife to jump and spasm.

  She watched as Christopher's jaw dropped low, and his bloodshot hazel eyes scanned her malformed face.

  "Veronica... What did you do...?"

  Hearing Christopher use her name, Veronica felt something stir inside her. A peculiar feeling that she couldn't quite place. A bead of moisture formed between her legs.

  "I answered the door," she replied, fighting back a blush at her own indecency. "We don't usually have visitors so it really surprised me. But he's gone now, so it's okay. We can carry on where we left off."

  Sauntering over on unsteady legs, Veronica set the knife down on the floor by Christopher's foot and paused for a second. The desire to straddle his lap filled her, and for a brief moment she wrestled with herself over whether or not she would do it. She didn't want to come across as too forward — too slutty. Daddy had always liked her to be demure and submissive, so at first she considered leaving well enough alone and simply crouching beside him. However a memory leapt up in her mind, and banished the notion with its presence. Veronica remembered the girl (she couldn't quite remember her name) lunging at Christopher and shoving her tongue down his throat; and she remembered how Christopher reciprocated. He liked forward girls. Girls who knew what they wanted.

  Easing herself down onto his lap, she splayed her legs either side of his torso and slipped them beneath the arms of the chair. Her crotch bottoming down on his own, heat bled through her womb and she just about managed to suppress a throaty gasp.

  "I just wanted this to be perfect," she said, her solicitous cooing deformed by her smashed nose. "Today's a special day. It's why I needed you here."

  Wrapping her arms around Christopher's head, she nuzzled her chin into his hair and inhaled his scent. No sooner had she done so, another wave of heat washed through her body. His face pressed into her breasts, Christopher's hot breath trickled through the material of her top, the sensation stiffening her nipples into hard buds.

  Swallowing her need, Veronica leaned back and looked down at Christopher. "You're all I ever wanted. Today... Today I couldn't even think about spending it without you. It's supposed to be special."

  "What's special about today?" he asked, shifting slightly to the side; the zipper of his trousers rubbing against her sweet spot.

  Veronica cupped his face in her sticky, bloody hands and lowered her face in front of his. "It's my sixteenth birthday."

  Then she kissed him. Jagged teeth scraped along his lips and blood trickled from the corner of her mouth as her torn tongue probed into his mouth. Tasting him for the first time, Veronica felt her body begin to drift in weightless bliss.

  Tears of happiness formed in her eyes when she finally pulled away, and shallow breaths hitched her chest. Propelled by the urge to feel him, she began to run her hands over his body, tracing the contours of his collarbones before moving up his neck and over his face. The sheer closeness of him sent her mind reeling, leaving her dead to everything else. In that moment, she felt a beautiful red passion wash through her like a tropical sea.

  Seemingly catching his breath, Christopher again shifted to one side. Eyes not once leaving her face, his voice wavered slightly as he spoke. "S-so... What did you want to do for... For your birthday?"

  Love burned in Veronica's chest as she heard the question. She had never been asked that before, not even by her Daddy. Tears burst from her eyes, diluting the blood that smeared her face, and another tremble rocked her body.

  "I..." She stopped for a second to compose herself; to quash the sudden flood of happiness that had burst inside her. "I want to dance with you."

  Failing to see the flash of hope that passed across Christopher's face, she gently lifted herself off of him and crouched on
the floor. Excitement took hold as she reached out with bloody fingers and began to unbuckle the belts that secured his legs to those of the chair.

  As she did so, words trickled from her mouth, in time with the drip of blood. Half muttering, she wasn't entirely sure if their presence was even intentional.

  "But if I untie you, you need to promise not to run away. I know that you won't, but you still need to promise. But I can't let you go. But you can't dance with me unless you're untied. Unless you stayed on your knees. Yes, your knees. I'm going to need you to stay on your knees, and we'll dance like that."

  Finishing removing the belt fastening Christopher's left foot, she slowly moved one hand over his skin.

  Then she picked up her knife and sliced through his Achilles tendon.

  __________________________________

  An ugly sound suddenly formed in Christopher’s throat, against his will. Pain lanced up his leg, searing through his nerve endings and his left ankle fell limp; unable to move. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes, stinging them and threatening to blind him.

  No! he thought. Eat it! Don't cry and don't scream! She's distracted! Quick- Before she does the other one!

  Adrenaline flooded his body, temporarily numbing him to the pain, and a desperate power took hold of him unlike anything he had experienced before. Wrenching his left hand against the restriction of the belt he pulled with every ounce of strength in his body, and more.

  He felt the cold bite of metal against the back of his right ankle.

  A sickening crack split the air, reverberating against the walls of the dimly lit room.

  Christopher had managed to wrench his hand free. Unfortunately, his freedom had come at the cost of his wrist and two of his fingers. Wrenched from their sockets by the sheer force, they flailed uselessly in the air as he lost balance and the chair toppled. His foot caught Veronica in the face as he fell, sending her sprawling backwards, the knife flung from her grip.

  Without a moment's hesitation, his two functioning fingers on his left hand frantically worked at the belt still binding his right wrist. The fingernail of his index finger was torn off as, in his desperation, he dug too hard at the buckle. He didn't care. He needed to free himself. To get out before she recovered.

  The blood actually helped. The crimson liquid had lubricated the leather, allowing it to slide easier. Within seconds his right arm was free as well.

  A mad strength possessed him, and soon he was on his knees, crawling towards the discarded knife. His speed surprised even him. With the tendons in his ankle severed, and his wrist still removed from its socket, almost his entire left side was dead. By all right and logic, he shouldn't have been able to move as fast as he did. And yet he did.

  Fingers touching the handle of the blade, Christopher was about to close them around it when he felt a grip tighten on the leg of his trousers. Yanking him back with a strength unbefitting her size, Veronica fell upon him with a scream of rage. Clawing her way up his body, teeth jutting and snapping from her barracuda mouth, she began to wrestle him, attempting to fight him into submission.

  Ordinarily Christopher would have had no problem fighting her off. But the situation was nothing but ordinary. His muscles cramping from the sudden usage, and overwrought with pain from his leg, he struggled to fend off the girl's thrashing attack. Ripping into him with her nails, Veronica tore at him with all the power of a vicious insanity.

  Gripping her with his functioning right hand, in an attempt to push her back, Christopher thrashed his legs in a futile attempt to kick her off of him.

  Finally finding leverage by rolling onto his back, Christopher kept his grip on her and reared his left arm back. Slamming his dislocated left hand into her already ruined face, the diminutive force was enough to temporarily stun her.

  Momentarily free from Veronica's assault on him, he made a break for the door. Crawling along the floor, dragging his useless left foot behind him, he just about made it through the frame.

  Not stopping for even a moment, he scrambled down the hallway, making for the beam of light at the end. Hot on his heels, Veronica charged after him, however was again stunned by a backwards kick from Christopher's right leg. His heel slamming into the side of her knee, she fell to the floor and landed face-first on the carpeted floor.

  Christopher reached the stairs in less than a minute. Desperately tearing up them, on his hands and knees, his severed tendon screamed at him whenever even the slightest pressure was put on it. Tears burning in his eyes, he finally reached the top of the staircase, just has he saw Veronica beginning her chase after him, in earnest.

  Gripping the wooden structure, he slammed the door at the top of the stairs closed, the wood crushing into the crazed girl's face as she reached the mouth of the doorway. Through the filter of the door, he heard a series of dull crashes as she tumbled back down the staircase.

  Now bought some more time, Christopher's vision darted around the room in which he found himself. Random details assaulted him through vision tunneled by pain. Petunias in a vase on the windowsill; a countertop scattered with various letters and envelopes; the peel of an onion, missed during sweeping, sitting dejected in the corner of the room; an oven with the door left half open. He was in a kitchen.

  A kitchen.

  A kitchen meant knives; a means of defending himself.

  Grabbing hold of a drawer handle with his still working right hand, Christopher attempted to pull himself up. His hand slick with blood, however, he lost his grip and fell backwards, hitting his head against the floor. Pain shot under the skin of his scalp, prickling through what seemed like each individual hair in his head.

  Gritting his teeth, Christopher let out a guttural groan and abandoned his plan to find a knife. Pulling himself over the tiles, he began to crawl through the house in search of a phone.

  What he found instead filled him with a horrific sense of fear and unease. Laying on his back in a growing puddle of rain and blood, his legs jutting out of the open doorway, was the body of a man. Lightning flashed through the door, illuminating the body in stark black and white, and thunder boomed in Christopher's ears. Behind it, he could hear Veronica screaming his name as she tore up the stairs and came after him.

  Fear pulsing in his throat, Christopher wrestled with his conscience before deciding to abandon the man. Tears blurring his vision, he crawled over the man's bloody body and fled the house, into the storm.

  Rain drowned his body, and his fingers dug through the soaking stones of the gravel pathway. The wound on his ankle continued to radiate pain up his leg and a shard of flint jammed into the soft flesh of his finger, exposed by his missing nail, sending a burning jolt through his hand.

  Rolling out of the driveway, and into the road, he reared his head back and stared over his shoulder, back at the house. Illuminated by another burst of lightning, he saw Veronica appear in the doorway and start towards him. Before she had gone more than a few feet, however, the figure in the doorway moved. Grasping her by the leg, the dying man pulled her foot out from underneath her, in an attempt to seemingly restrain her.

  A horrific rage-filled scream roared through the air as the girl fought against the man's limp arms. Again Christopher saw her lift the knife, and the implement was driven down into the man's shoulder.

  Fear still gripping him, Christopher dragged his body across the road, reaching the bank of the bordering field. Fingers digging into the mud, he pulled himself over the bank and into the mire left in the wake of the rain.

  Ahead, through the descending curtain of rain, he could see the distant lights of Grand Stone Bay, decorating the base of the valley. Lifting his body up, on trembling arms, he attempted to get a better view when he lost strength and tumbled forwards. Entering into a roll, he tumbled headfirst down the steep incline of the muddy field.

  Sprinting over the road behind, Veronica leapt the bank and dived down the hill after him.

  __________________________________

  Chapter
27

  The radio, fitted beneath his dashboard, pulsed with the thrum of heavy drum and bass. Windscreen wipers beat against the drowning glass with a heavy thrash, as if to the beat of the music.

  Squinting his eyes, Tufail Kalam peered past the downpour as he eased his foot off of the accelerator and turned down the volume.

  Things were not at all going as he expected. His original plan was to take the country roads, to bypass the motorway traffic coming off of the industrial estate, and utilize the national speed limit to cut through the lanes at a fast pace. The rain, however, was putting a dampener on that plan. The roads were soaked, and the wind was beating against the frame of his sports car to such a degree that his driving was suffering. His steering was all over the place, and whenever he had to take a corner Tufail had to slow right down for fear of sliding off of the blacktop.

  Worse still was the persistent thunder and lightning. It cackled across the landscape in a deafening cacophony, distracting him from the roads and searing his nerves. Never in all of his years had he been so on edge.

  Eyeing the clock hesitantly, he took a breath. There were still ten minutes until his meeting, and he wasn't sure if he was going to make it.

  Turning a corner the lights of Grand Stone Bay appeared on his right, through the veil of rain, as the road opened up into a straight stretch ahead of him. Increasing the pressure on his accelerator, Tufail sped up and bore down on the road.

  He hoped that, if he was late, the investor would wait for him. If he had any luck, his staff would think to delay any potential departure with the offer of free food and drink.

  Tufail considered calling ahead and explaining the traffic situation. His finger hovered over the touch screen, built into his dashboard, and toyed with the idea of activating his hands free and dialing the investor's number. His eyes moved down and momentarily lingered on the device. Biting his lip, he mulled over the option, before he decided against it. Tearing his eyes away from the screen, he returned his attention to the road-