Cat's Paw

by Mollie Hunt

  An open archway led to another room, probably the original dining room, though most modern families had forsaken the tradition of eating around a table. I began toward it, then suddenly hesitated. As I stood, peering into a patchwork of shadows, I wondered what the heck I was doing. Obviously Simon wasn’t here. The smart thing would be to cut my losses, follow doctor’s orders, and go on home before someone called the cops on me for B and E. My body wasn’t listening to my brain, however. Against all my better judgement, it zombied into the shaded space on a whim of its own.

  I stumbled over something soft and nearly went down on my bad wrist which even thinking about caused me considerable pain. That was another good reason to quit fooling around; the last thing I needed was a second visit to the ER. I squinted to see what I had kicked. An ottoman. I breathed a sigh of relief, only then realizing I had feared a much more macabre scenario.

  By now my eyes had adapted enough to confirm I was alone. A quick scan revealed a tidy, friendly space: couch, love seat, television, a small fireplace with another vase of silk flowers where the fire should be. There were some candles on the mantelpiece, a magazine on the coffee table, and a few knickknacks strewn around but nothing out of place. Maybe it’s because I’m such a clutter-slob, but I found the tidiness disconcerting.

  I glanced at the front door, thinking I should just keep going right on through it. Why not? I mused. After all, I’d given it a good shot. Maybe I’d got the address wrong; maybe Simon had been called away. In either event, there was nothing here for me, where at home I had cats, books, and a couch of my own.

  As I was heading back to get my bag, I noticed a doorway I’d missed on the way in. The curiosity zombie in me was there before I could stop her, automaton hand turning the antique glass knob.

  I inched it open, then blinked as a blaze of light hit my dark-adapted retinas. A narrow staircase led up, then doubled back as it reached the second floor. The sun flashed through the landing window like a spotlight.

  The wooden stairs creaked as I climbed. “Simon?” I called in a nearly normal voice. “It’s Lynley.” I didn’t expect an answer and wasn’t surprised when none came.

  I was out of breath by the time I reached the top and recognized I was still in pretty bad shape. A quick peek and I’d be out of there, back to the comfort of nothing to do, no one to search for, and no conundrums that couldn’t be addressed at another time.

  There were three doors off the small hallway, all ajar. I looked in the first, the cleanest boudoir I’d ever seen outside a home show display. Next was the bathroom, again spotless and stark; not a smear on the glittering chrome or a spatter on the mirror glass. The third door was farther along, the master bedroom. Though larger, it resembled the other with its sparse but perfectly positioned furnishings and minimum of decor. At first glance, it seemed flawless, but then I saw it: the beige bedcovers on the double bed were rumpled. Not badly, and certainly not as if someone had slept there—‌just mussed. In this meticulously tidy house, the slight disorder stood out like a white whisker on a black cat.

  I moved a little way into the room. It was even bigger than I had initially thought, and at the far end was another door. Closet? Dressing room? The fourth dimension?

  Turning away from the unidentified door as if to pretend I wasn’t the least bit curious, I checked out the dresser with its tiny doily and its one adornment, a crystal bowl of potpourri. I peered out the window overlooking the street which was still as quiet as a scene from a post-apocalyptic movie. I studied the disarranged bed covers again; there was no discernible shape to it, not as if someone had taken a nap. A second window on the far side of the bed revealed the same view. A tall chest of drawers sat next to the mystery door. I examined it in detail. I even thought about opening one of the drawers, but that would be crossing a line. After Simon’s call and furtive instructions, I felt I had a right to be in the house and even in the bedroom since I could chalk it up to looking for the man, but he wasn’t going to be stuffed into a drawer—‌I hoped—‌so that sort of snooping was out. The mystery room was still within bounds, however, and I had nowhere else left to search.

  I eased open the door and was immediately hit by the smell I’d noted when I first came in the house. It was much stronger here and definitely nasty. I placed it now that it wasn’t overlaid with chemical roses—‌urine. Was this another bathroom, a very dirty one? I felt for a wall switch and found it. I flicked on the light and all illusion of normality went up in smoke.

  Two men lay sprawled on the floor of a big walk-in closet. Both were utterly still, utterly...

  “Oh, no! Simon!” I cried as I moved to the nearer figure. I touched his forehead which was cool but not cold, then felt his wrist for a pulse. It was there, faint and unsteady, but beating.

  “Simon, wake up!” I gasped.

  I rolled him onto his back, probably not the best idea if he had a broken neck but I wasn’t thinking. There was a red stain where his head had been—‌blood! His thick silver hair was matted and sticky. I sat back on my haunches, having a serious What the dickens do I do now? moment. Call 911! popped into my head like a thought balloon. I reached for my phone, then remembered it was in my bag downstairs on the kitchen table.

  I lurched to my feet, then glanced at the other man. He lay face-up, his features blank and expressionless, his eyes open and dull. Dead dull. I could tell from where I stood that he was gone.

  Who was he? In death, his face seemed youthful, but the beginnings of gray in his sideburns and hair hinted at middle age. His arms sprawled akimbo. One shirt sleeve was rolled up and I could make out a pinpoint of dark red on the vein at the inside of his elbow. Drugs! IV drugs. From the blue rubber tie half-concealed under his shoulder, I guessed at recent use.

  A spent syringe lay in the corner next to a pair of brown men’s shoes. Was that what killed him? Was this another of the heroin-Telazol murders? My gaze slipped back to Simon. Was he a victim or the killer after all?

  Putting the thought out of my head, I said a little too loudly, “I’ll be right back, old friend. You’re going to be fine,” I truly believe the unconscious can hear what’s going on around them, and I don’t think they care if it’s a little white lie.

  I started across the bedroom when I heard a door slam on the lower level. I took a few steps forward, thinking the cops had somehow received my telepathic plea, then stopped. If it were the police, I would have some explaining to do; if not, I could be in even worse trouble.

  Footsteps crossed the lower level, became muffled when they hit the living room rug, then distinct once more. The footfalls, heavy like a man’s, started up the stairs. I hadn’t thought my heart could beat any faster but I was wrong. Too late to run. I flipped off the light and shrugged in among the hanging clothes.

  He was at the bedroom door. I could hear the footsteps hesitate, then make straight for the closet. For a moment, he stood silhouetted in the doorway like a shadow monster, then he switched on the light. His eyes swept the room and rose instantly to me.

  “Nathan?” I whispered.

  “Lynley?”

  “What are you doing here?” we both asked in unison. It might have been funny in another place or time.

  Nathan hesitated, his face grim and mask-like. “Simon called me” he said finally. “Told me to meet him here.”

  I uncurled from my hiding place and ran a hand through my tousled hair. “In the closet?”

  “Well, no. But he did say he might be upstairs, to just come on up. What about you?”

  “Pretty much the same. When no one answered my calls, I thought I’d have a look around. I found this.” I flinched toward the floor. “Simon’s alive but the other man’s dead.”

  “Simon is alive?”

  “Yes, but he needs a doctor.”

  Nathan surveyed the scene, then a gloved hand shot out and grabbed my arm. I was surprised by his uncharacteristic roughness.

  “Ouch, you’re hurting me!”

  Instead of
letting up, he began to yank me along like a cat on a leash; like that cat, I stubbornly resisted but he was stronger and my resistance was futile.

  “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”

  “What about Simon?”

  “You can call the ambulance once we get away. Right now we need to leave.”

  “Why?” I whimpered as we stumbled down the stairs double time.

  He didn’t answer; I pulled away. “My purse is in the kitchen.” Nathan groaned but veered into that room. I scooped up the straps with my bad wrist and promptly dropped them again. “I need my hand back!” He relented and I jerked away from his grasp. By the time I’d reclaimed the purse, Nathan was already out the door.

  Chapter 28

  Cats know when their people are feeling poorly and may volunteer as companion, sleeping nearby until they are better. Some cats even sense when a person is about to die and remain close as they begin their final journey.

  “We need to tell the police,” I said through chattering teeth.

  Nathan and I sat on a green wooden bench in a park near the Rainier Street house. A fleet of emergency vehicles had screamed by, giving me slight relief that Simon was getting the help he needed but making me feel all the more guilty for running away. I was shaking so hard I could barely talk, though it had nothing to do with the weather which had turned drearier, dark clouds scudding in a low sky like the tangled thoughts running through my head.

  Nathan and I had left the house at a run, stopping only long enough to make an anonymous 911 call from a pay phone by a small convenience store. For some reason Nathan insisted we not use our cell phones; he didn’t want to get involved. I’d gone along with it, but now I was having second thoughts. We were involved and denying it would only make us look like we had something to hide.

  Which we didn’t.

  Or at least, I didn’t.

  “Nathan, is there something you’re not telling me?”

  His eyes darted between the trees, the street, the people walking past. “No, of course not, Lynley. I’m just as much in the dark as you are.”

  “Then why don’t you want to cooperate with the police? Maybe we can tell them something that could help them figure out what happened back there.”

  He was silent, transfixed by the antics of a squirrel at the base of an oak tree pawing for his buried cache.

  “It doesn’t feel right, running like this,” I persisted.

  I studied the young man. His face had aged since the retreat a mere few months before. His sandy blond hair was stringy and dark circles spread low over his cheekbones. His blue eyes were blood-shot. He looked like he had a hangover. Maybe it was that simple. Maybe not.

  “Nathan? What’s going on?”

  Nathan turned and took my hand. He seemed to be close to tears.

  “I don’t know, Lynley. Really. Simon never told me what he wanted. He just called and said to come to Portland, that he’d make it worth my while.”

  “What does that mean? Money?”

  Nathan heaved a great sigh. “I got the impression it had something to do with art, a job or a commission. But maybe that was wishful thinking.”

  “But now Simon’s been hurt, someone else has been killed, and we’re on the run like a couple of criminals.” I shook my head. “This is wrong. I’m going to call in and confess.”

  His face blanched. “You can’t!”

  “Think about it. They’re going to know someone was in the bedroom. They’ll figure out who it was in due time.”

  “How?” he stuttered.

  “Well, for one, they’re bound to take fingerprints. I don’t know about you, but mine are on file.”

  Nathan gave me a look of surprise. “You’re kidding. What did you do?”

  “Nothing. Wrong place, wrong time. But they’ll know I was there and it’ll look very suspicious that I ran away.”

  Nathan sat forward on the bench, dropping his head into his hands. “I don’t know, I don’t know!”

  Suddenly he sprang up, towering over me. “Okay, Lynley, you do whatever you need to, but don’t tell them about me.” He held up a gloved hand. “I didn’t leave any prints and they’ll never find me. Please, just keep me out of it.”

  I stared up at the young man. The fear in his eyes was profound. “I can’t make any promises,” I began, then gave in. “I won’t lie, but I won’t say anything about you unless they ask.”

  “Good enough, I guess.”

  I pulled out my cell phone and he did a little dance, the nervous kind people do when they want to get away but something is stopping them.

  “What is it, Nathan?”

  “Um, are you going to call them now?”

  “No, I’m going to call a cab and go home. I’ll phone the police from there.”

  I heard the whine of a siren start up; thirty seconds later, a lone ambulance streaked by, presumably taking Simon to the hospital.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Nathan pressed. His concern was genuine though his impulse to flee was equally as intense.

  I looked at him, opened my mouth to say the inevitable “I’m fine,” but what came out in a cracked voice I barely recognized as my own was, “I doubt it very much.”

  * * *

  Nathan left anyway, loping off across the park as if he couldn’t wait to get gone. I hadn’t meant to scare him, but I couldn’t lie. Not about being in the Rainier house and not about how I felt. I had started down that rabbit hole of panic, and this time I feared it would take more than dunking my head in cold water to make it disappear.

  The cab came.

  I went home.

  I petted Little as she greeted me at the door. The cats knew something was up because even Solo, who ventured out only rarely from her beneath-the-sofa cave, came to meet me.

  Without taking off my coat or scarf, I collapsed onto the love seat and let the comfort of cats take over. With Little on my lap, Mab on my shoulder, and sweet Harry curled on the pillow beside me, I called the police.

  I asked for Detective Marsha Croft whom I’d met on previous occasions such as the one that had got me fingerprinted. Turned out she wasn’t on the case but it was reassuring to hear her voice as she transferred me to someone who was. He gave his name which I promptly forgot. My panic attack had swelled into a full blown episode, reducing me to a tiny quivering lump of jelly with a thin exoskeleton of normalcy that could carry on only the simplest of tasks.

  I asked the nice detective to repeat his name and this time I wrote it down: Detective Tim Schultz. I told him that I had been at the scene of a crime at 2445 S.E. Rainier Street that morning; had discovered a dead man and my friend unconscious; had panicked and ran, then called 911 from a pay phone. I told him I knew it was wrong and that I was very sorry and could he please tell me how my friend was doing and what hospital he was in.

  Detective Tim was brusque at first, as he had every right to be, but he softened. Maybe he could hear something in my voice, the underlying scream that accompanied every labored breath. Maybe he had learned you can catch more flies with honey. Maybe he was just a nice man.

  He told me someone would be out in a little while to take my statement, then he paused. “Looks like you had a little trouble yesterday as well, Lynley Cannon.”

  For a moment I couldn’t think what he was talking about. I couldn’t think, period. Then I remembered.

  “You mean my car?”

  “Did you have any other trouble yesterday?” he asked suspiciously.

  “No. That was pretty much it.”

  He waited, but when I didn’t elaborate, he stated, “The forensic team is still looking it over.”

  “How long?” I managed.

  “Oh, these things take time. They’ll let you know when it’s ready to go to the repair shop.”

  “Repair? You mean it’s not totaled?”

  “Looks like the damage was confined to the trunk area. Not that bad at all, considering.”

  “Great,” I said, now reduced to o
ne-syllable words.

  “Uh, okay then. You going to be home, Mrs. Cannon?”

  “Home?”

  “For the officer to come by.”

  “Oh. Yes. Sure.

  Forcing a complete sentence, I added, “I’ll be here for the rest of the day. They can come any time.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cannon.” He hesitated on the other end of the line. “Ma’am? Are you alright?”

  “Yes. Thank you for asking. It’s just been a bit too much. And I’m really sorry about leaving and all. That was really stupid.”

  “Yeah, but a natural reaction. Happens more often than you think. I appreciate your call. Saves us a lot of time and expense. Usually we have to track ’em down.”

  He hung up, reminding me once again someone would be out to take my statement. Not too much later, Detective Schultz himself showed up at my front door. He was older than he sounded on the phone, well into his forties which may have accounted for some of his empathy. Dark hair, dark complexion that bespoke an origin in a warmer climate than the Pacific Northwest though whether Mexico or South America, I couldn’t begin to guess. The surname, Schultz, didn’t help.

  We had a chat about what a bad girl I’d been, then got down to business. I managed to tell my tale without mentioning Nathan Shore’s untimely appearance or feeling too negligent about my omission.

  Detective Schultz asked me again if I were okay. Again I assured him that I was.

  He left.

  I went to bed, where I remained for the rest of the week.

  * * *

  If anyone out there has ever fought with anxiety and depression, you know how difficult it can be. You who haven’t, thank the God of your understanding and take my word for it that it’s tough. All the platitudes, all the wisdoms can’t convince your primate brain that doom isn’t at hand, the abyss on either side, and monsters crueler than the worst Steven King nightmare waiting to gobble you up at your first slip.