by Mollie Hunt
* * *
All was good at the shelter. I think that was one of the reasons I made it my second home: no matter what happened, what disaster we faced, what hoard we received, what illness or joy our work entailed, everything flowed. People did their jobs with love and compassion, and life progressed as it should everywhere else but usually didn’t.
Besides Missy, I’d been working with another difficult case, Edie Fisher, a cranky elderly black puss who had been returned three times for acting out. When Edie’s original people brought her in, they said nothing about her grumpy side; their concern was litter box issues, a deal-breaker for a majority of cats who end up in shelters. Our doctors found she had a urinary tract infection which is known to make an otherwise well-behaved cat avoid the box, equating it with the pain of urinating. She took some meds and voila! No problems since.
Edie got adopted soon after but the family returned her two days later when she hissed at their child. From then on, she began to display almost hallucinatory episodes where she would spit and cringe for no apparent reason. She had been adopted out again with full disclosure, but sometimes people don’t listen or maybe they just don’t hear. Anyway, in another two days she was back at the shelter, more flustered than ever.
I had taken her to the real-life room where she hissed and growled for a few minutes, then settled down to take a nap in the corner. I read a book and watched her, talked gently and hoped for an insight into her crazy kitty brain. My shelter friend, Frannie, and I had attended a seminar on animal communication, the psychic kind—Frannie got it; I didn’t. Still, I tried a little clearing of the mind and chanting of the mantra. I don’t know if it worked, but Edie got up and came over to me. I picked her up and put her on my lap where she whipped her tail while purring loudly. It didn’t last long; she hopped down and went back to her corner, but when she settled, she gave me a slow blink. That was progress.
I felt a little buzz in my apron pocket and remembered I had my phone with me. I pulled it out and looked at the screen. No call—it just wanted to let me know it was almost three and Edie was due in the cattery to be weighed and fed by the staff.
“What do you think, Edie Fisher?” I asked the black shadow curled next to the wall. “Shall we go get you some dinner?”
Edie gave me a sweet blink and a growl.
* * *
I hated putting Edie back in the kennel, but she slipped right in like it was home. I gave her a handful of treats and refilled her water bowl with fresh. When I left, she was munching happily and making contented sighs. Some cats actually like the small space they can call their own.
I headed through the shelter to the volunteer locker room, saying hello to friends along the way. A new volunteer stopped me to ask a question about flea medication, and I detoured to the front desk to inquire how an adoption had gone the previous day, but finally I was equipped with my lunch bag and on my way to the atrium.
Stopping short, I realized I’d forgotten all about calling Mrs. Fox. I made a U-turn and went back to retrieve her number. Staring at the note penned across Felix’s smiley face, I decided to call her right then and there. Lunch could wait another five minutes. I sat down, pulled out my phone and dialed.
I heard it ring, then coincidentally there came a jingle right outside the locker room door. I didn’t pay much attention to it; since we weren’t supposed to use cell phones in the public areas of the shelter, the volunteers routinely came into the back to send and receive calls. Besides, someone had picked up on the other end of my line.
“Hello?” said a voice, faint but clear in the hallway, then a millisecond later, I heard “Hello?” over my phone.
“Mrs. Fox?”
“Yes?” “Yes?” came the reply from both sides.
“Um, uh... Where are you?” I stuttered in confusion.
“Who is...” from the hall. “Who is this?” in the phone.
I jumped up, phone still to my ear, and went to the door. I looked down the hallway, and sure enough, there she stood, formidable as ever in designer jeans and a green Friends of Felines volunteer apron, Mrs. Adrianna Fox.
For a moment we just stared at each other, then she pulled her phone from her ear, clicked it off and put it in her pocket.
“Lynley? Is that really you?”
“Uh, yup,” I said way more casually that I felt. “Mrs. Fox. I was just calling you.”
She laughed. “What a coincidence. And here I am.”
Aside from the FOF apron, she looked just the same as last I’d seen her: black hair in a tight bun, brown eyes wide behind tortoise-rimmed glasses. In spite of a watery smile, her face was blank of emotion.
I also put my phone away and stepped a little closer. “So you are. Well, welcome to Friends of Felines. But I thought you lived in Seattle.”
“That’s right, I do. You have a good memory,” she conceded in a rare compliment. “But I had to come to Portland to help out a sick friend.”
“That’s nice of you. And you just decided to do some volunteering while you were here?”
“Well, yes. I’m a dedicated volunteer back home, of course. The Pretty Kitty Pet Rescue.”
“Yes, you mentioned it when we were at the retreat.”
“I’m not surprised. I’ve been working with them for years. It gets into the blood, you know.” She smiled briefly. “Friends was happy to have me, if only on a short term basis.”
Ah, yes. There was the old Fox arrogance. But volunteering was certainly something to be proud of. I respected her for it but wished she wouldn’t be quite so haughty.
A chattering group of new volunteers pushed by, directed by a team leader. Fox and I flattened against the wall to let them go. From the other direction came a pair of Animal Care Technicians, paid staff in their cat-print scrubs.
“Do you ever feel as if you’re in the way?” Fox jested.
I held up my lunch bag. “I was on my way to the atrium for lunch. Care to join me?”
“I had my lunch hours ago,” she said.
“They sell coffee and tea.”
“Maybe a mint tea.”
A herd of school children stampeded down the stairs at the end of the hall, making their joyful way in our direction.
Mrs. Fox and I looked at each other, nodded, and without another word, headed for the quiet food court.
* * *
The atrium was on the second floor balcony, a fanciful creation of innovative architecture overlooking the lobby with its floor-to-ceiling windows. From there one could gaze out across the parking lot to the industrial area and the cloud-shrouded hills beyond, or peer down on the bustling lobby and the glass-walled kitten room below. Mrs. Fox and I sat at a small table watching the baby cats as they tirelessly played and chased and sprung at each other. I’d finished my lunch—a leftover polenta, an apple, and a tiny bag of Cheetos for the junk food factor—while Mrs. Fox told me all about her shelter experiences, her sick friend and—well—everything. Everything except Simon Bird. I had listened attentively, but now it was time to get down to the nitty gritty.
“Didn’t you say in your email you’d been in contact with Simon?” I queried.
“Contact?”
She was staring at me quizzically so I wiped my mouth just to make sure it wasn’t because I had flame-orange Cheeto lips. “That was my impression. You seemed to know so much about what he’d been doing lately. Why, you even knew he was here in Portland.”
“Well, it’s no secret.”
“Actually, I kind of thought it was.”
Mrs. Fox gave me her coy smile. “Oh well, I guess you’re right. Tulsa said he was trying to keep a low profile. But I didn’t think that would apply to us. Why, you’re his old friend after all.”
So it was Tulsa who had filled Fox in. I wondered why she hadn’t been as forthcoming with me. The Fox could be persuasive when she wanted to. I decided to take the direct approach.
“To be frank, I’m a little worried about Simon. When he cam
e to see me, he was terribly tense. He seemed to think someone was after him. And me,” I added.
“After you?” She pulled the tea bag out of her paper cup, carefully placed it on its empty wrapper, and took a sip. “What do you mean?”
“He has this idea that someone, some maniac, is targeting people he knows, people who have been important in his life. I have to admit, the murders of Crystal and Marissa, along with his Portland friend, Paul Hartley, seem to be more than coincidence.”
I wasn’t sure Fox would know about Hartley and was thinking I might get a rise out of her, but she just stared out toward the hills, then said out of the blue, “This really is a beautiful city, Lynley. Seattle’s a gem, of course. You can’t beat it with its lovely waterways and islands, but Portland does have charm.”
Okay, if she wanted to play the casual game, I could do it too. I gazed across the panoramic view as if I had nothing else on my mind. Then my eye fell on a familiar red Toyota parked front and center in the parking lot.
“Oh, rats,” I said, stuffing the residuals of my lunch back into the insulated bag.
“What’s wrong, Lynley?” Her mouth made a little O of concern.
“It’s nothing really. I dropped off a load of donations this morning and then forgot to move my car down to the volunteer lot. A friend gave us a dozen cases of canned cat food and several bags of dry, and I wasn’t about to carry them any farther than I had to. But I really should move it now. The shelter gets busy this time of day and they need the front spaces for adopters.”
She cast her eye along the row of cars. “Which is yours?”
“Eh?”
“Which car?”
“Oh, the little red one with all the bumper stickers.” I pointed in a general direction, then went back to separating my garbage and recyclables to dispose of in the proper Portland manner.
“That one in between the SUVs?”
I nodded.
“But what’s that man doing there?”
I looked up in alarm. “I don’t see anyone.”
“He’s gone now. But there was a man by your car. He was peering in the windows. Actually, it looked like he was trying to get in.”
Dread flowed over me, and I was instantly in wary cat mode. Leaving my things on the table, I vaulted from my chair and headed for the stairs.
I clattered down the steps, slipping on newly-polished floor wax. I sprinted along the hallway, around the cattery and into the lobby. Pushing through the afternoon crowd, I hefted my way out the heavy front doors with Mrs. Fox a few strides behind me.
The day was soft and gray as a British Shorthair, the temperature edging toward winter but I didn’t feel it. My heart was racing as I stared around the parking lot for something suspicious, something out of place. All I saw, however, were a few folks being frustratingly normal. A family headed into the shelter, kids smiling and happy at the prospect of seeing the cats; a young couple got into their car with a pair of tiny cardboard kitten carriers. Conspicuously absent were men in ski-masks, zombies, or a clowder of clowns.
“Do you see him?” I hissed at Fox.
“No. He must have got away,” she panted, breathy from the dash.
“I’m going to check my car, see if he did any damage.” I paused. “You really think he was acting strangely?
She shrugged. “Maybe—maybe not. But to my mind, he seemed to be lurking.”
A whole symphony of alarms rang in my head. I told myself not to be paranoid, but after being warned—not once, but multiple times—of stalkers and murderers, myself didn’t listen very well. “Okay,” I sighed. “Here goes.”
I straightened my back, stepped off the curb, and bravely advanced toward the car.
A flash of white hot light struck my eyes. A deafening boom ripped across the asphalt followed by a tsunami of superheated air that knocked me off my feet like a bully in a playground. I reached out to brace myself as I fell hard on the pavement. Searing pain shot from my right wrist all the way to my shoulder and I gasped for breath.
My eyes clenched shut, smarting; my ears rang louder than at the Led Zeppelin concert I’d attended in my younger days. I was stupefied, overcome with a feeling of displacement I’d never felt before, not even close. One part of me wanted to run and hide, another was glued to the spot, incapable of motion.
Someone was yelling; I could see the gesticulations, but all I heard was a tinny mewl from far away and an overlaying skill-saw whine. I recognized him but couldn’t fit the face with the name. My mind was blank, seared clean by the blast.
Someone pulled me to my feet. I screamed when they grasped my forearm and crumpled like a ragdoll. Instantly I was uplifted like a child and ferried into the lobby of the shelter. By the time they sat me on the cushioned bench, my hearing had shifted from a whine to the beating of my heart. Overlaying the boom boom boom were voices and the high screech of police sirens. I had yet to understand what had happened to me.
Chapter 25
The Ragdoll breed of cats got their name from their tendency to go limp and relaxed when picked up.
All the television shows and all the movies in which I’d seen things being blown to bits had done nothing to prepare me for the real thing. I had a clear memory of my car rising in the air in slow motion, then exploding in a shower of glass and red-tinted steel. I was wrought with sadness; I loved that car!
Apparently I was in shock because turns out it wasn’t that way at all. As the very kind paramedic wheeled me to the ambulance some indefinite time later, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Wait!” I cried. “Stop for a minute.”
She paused obediently, and I sat up on the gurney. There was my car, surrounded by police vehicles, a fire truck parked off to the left. Aside from some black smudges around the open and misshapen trunk, it didn’t look that bad. Certainly not in the thousand pieces I was so sure I’d seen.
“I don’t understand,” I said to no one in particular.
“What’s that?” replied the paramedic in the I’ve-heard-everything tone people get when they do an emotionally challenging job for too long.
I was about to clarify when someone called to me. The voice, though fuzzy as an earful of cat hair, became clearer as the man closed on my position.
“Hey, Lynley, hold up.”
This time I had no trouble placing the handsome figure jogging toward me.
“Special Agent Paris,” I said with a smile. “What happened to my car?”
He pulled to a stop and looked down at me with trepidation. “Are you feeling better?” He glanced at the paramedic’s identification badge. “How’s she doing, Kate?”
“I’m about to check her out now, but so far so good. Sprained wrist, looks like. No other apparent injuries.”
“I’m fine,” I said because that’s what people say when they want to get on with the conversation. “But my car. I thought it blew up. I saw it. Bits and pieces, warped and mangled.”
Again the quick eye to the medical professional. “Your car’s not in pieces,” Denny said. “It’s going to need some work though.”
I shook my head. “But I could swear...”
“That happens,” Kate replied. “In times of extreme stress and shock, people’s senses often remember what they thought they saw instead of what really happened. It’s a form of stress-induced hallucination. It’s not abnormal,” she added at my look of horror. “Now we should get you into the vehicle, okay?”
“I feel fine,” I lied.
“Great. Then this shouldn’t take too long.”
“Lynley, we could use your car key,” Denny inserted.
I had to think for a moment, a sign that I wasn’t quite as fine as I would have liked to have been. “Here,” I squirmed on the gurney so I could get at the set of keys clipped to my belt loop, but when I reached to undo it, a shock of pain shot from my wrist up my arm. The arm fell to my side, suddenly paralyzed with hurt. I looked helplessly from Denny to the paramedic.
“Is
it broken?” I stuttered.
Gently Kate felt the injured wrist. “I don’t think so. Probably a sprain from your fall. Here, let’s immobilize it so you don’t damage it further.”
She moved to a set of built-in drawers in the back of the ambulance truck, found what she was looking for, and returned with an intimidating black splint. With a few skillful moves, she affixed a row of Velcro fasteners that went from my hand to my elbow. “Try not to fight the splint.” She tucked the arm by my side. “Best not to move it until the doctor gets a look.”
Though a sick throbbing continued, the pain receded a bit. I looked at Denny, trying to remember what I was doing.
“Keys?” he reminded gently.
“Oh, right.” I began to fumble with my left hand trying to undo the clasp and swearing as the thing eluded me.
“Let me get it.”
I collapsed back onto the narrow bed and let him do the deed which took less than a second in his capable hands. He looked at the batch, then unclipped the big one with the Toyota symbol. “Wow, it really is a key,” he marveled.
“Yup. Another few years and my car will be considered vintage.”
He handed me back the clip and I wrangled it into a pocket.
“Is she going to the hospital?” Denny asked the paramedic.
“No,” I answered, but was cut off.
“Yes, most certainly.”
Denny whipped out a business card and handed it to Kate. “Please list me as her contact.”
She looked at me.
I nodded.
“You have to sign a release of information form.”
I sighed. “Of course I do.”
She went to get the form and I turned to Denny. “Well, here we are again, you taking care of me.”
“Not a problem. I’ll find out what happened here.” He nodded toward the car, now roped off with crime scene tape. “I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”
“I really am okay. They’re just going to stick me in one of those claustrophobic emergency cubicles until a doctor young enough to be my grandson has time to check me out, tell me I’m healthy, sign papers to bill my insurance for a few thousand bucks, and put me out on the street.”