Cat's Paw

by Mollie Hunt

  I nodded and agreed and made promises not to do anything rash. With all honesty I thanked them for coming; their intervention had left me feeling somewhat less anxious. Maybe it was finally being able to talk it out with people who didn’t look at me like I was crazy or criminal; maybe it was just the human touch. Even though I still might be in danger, my attitude had changed. I had managed to climb out of the pit of despair and was bound and determined to hold my footing.

  Frannie had been the last to go, leaving me with some counsel I could actually use.

  “Keep working,” she had said. “Get out with people who appreciate what you do.”

  “I feel so fragile right now,” I told her. “I really don’t know if I’m up to facing the public. People are so unpredictable. I know most of them are nice, but you have to admit every once in a while you get a horror story. An adopter I was helping a few weeks ago insisted she was going to have the cat declawed. I nearly threw up, and that was before I’d come down with this anxiety episode. I don’t know what I’d do now.”

  “You would handle it. You’d show them the kitties who are already declawed—‌we usually have a few—‌and if that didn’t work, you would give them the lecture about how declawing is amputation. A lot of people just don’t know how serious the surgery really is.”

  “I couldn’t take it. I’d either crumple up and die or let loose a string of profanities that would get me permanently banned from volunteering.”

  “I understand,” she agreed. “But you do lots of other things at the shelter besides help with adoptions. Pet Pals, maybe? Or working with the ringworm cats. I guarantee you won’t meet the public there.”

  We both laughed. The poor babies who contracted that annoying fungus were isolated in a special room at the back of the shelter and only visited by a small group of approved staff and volunteers so as to reduce the likelihood of further infection. They got better over the multi-week treatment, but I always felt so sad for them, imprisoned for something over which they had no control.

  Frannie took my hand. “It doesn’t matter what you do—‌join a club, take a class, start a new hobby—‌but get yourself out there. Wasting away holed up in your house isn’t going to solve anything.”

  “Like murder?” I said mockingly.

  “Pshaw,” she spat. “This whole murder thing has been blown out of proportion. Stay away from Simon. He’s been trouble for you from the beginning. And I’m not so sure about that man, Nathan, either. Keep clear of them both, for now. Do something completely different. You could even take a trip.”

  “Okay, I get the idea. And you’re right. I need to stay occupied with something other than crime. It’s hard not to get swept up in it though.”

  “I know. But you do have control over your brain, or at least how you act on what it’s doing. Remember, ‘Don’t believe everything you think.’”

  I laughed at the bumper-sticker slogan. “Okay, I get it.”

  Warm fur wound itself around my ankles and a plaintive proww made it clear Tinkerbelle thought I should stay busy as well, specifically by serving her dinner. I reached down and scooped her into my arms, a tiny bundle of soft.

  Frannie gave her a pet, luxuriating in her silken fur. “And if you feel like doing something together, just call. We could go to lunch, go shopping.”

  “Okay.”

  “Promise?”

  I had promised, and she had left satisfied, but now as I stood, Tink still in my arms, I knew how empty that promise was. Her intentions were the best, but shopping? That wasn’t going to cut it right now. There wasn’t a single thing in the mall world I desired: not a patent leather shoe, not a knock-off designer bag, not even another Laurel Busch cat pin. All I wanted was to have the fear gone and my safety back.

  She was right about doing something worthwhile, though. As Tinkerbelle snuggled against my chest, I knew exactly what it was.

  Chapter 30

  The human-feline bond has been documented to save lives. Cat people will do for cats what they would not do for themselves. A man was dissuaded from committing suicide when he saw his red tabby cat held in the policeman’s arms.

  Tinkerbelle and I had worked together as Pet Partners for a little under a year, visiting assisted living facilities and hospice patients. We currently had no hospice assignments, but the residents at Cedar Crest Memory Care Home always enjoyed a drop-in. The patients at the home suffered from various stages of dementia so planning ahead was a moot point. The activities director, Robin, was always glad to see us, and some in-the-moment chatter was just what I needed. The residents loved Tinkerbelle, and her presence drew up all sorts of reminiscences of cats-gone-by. The fact that I would probably hear the same stories several times over as we worked the room didn’t bother me one whit.

  Tinkerbelle struggled from my contemplative grasp and leapt to the floor, reminding me first things first.

  “Dinner,” I said out loud. “Yes, I know. It’s on its way.”

  Since all my cats understand the word dinner, whether spoken or merely thought in the mind, by the time I got to the kitchen, I had acquired an entourage. I got the soup-can sized tin of cat food down from the cupboard, clasped it with my arm, pulled off the flip-top lid with my good hand, and began to divvy the spoils into brightly colored restaurantware berry bowls. From the fridge, I retrieved Violet’s special diet food and spooned a big dollop into a bigger bowl. I crushed a lysine tablet into each one, added a slurp of warm water, and the fare was ready. I turned and let the meows wash over me. The humble act of feeding the cats had made me happier than I’d been for a while.

  As I finished putting the bowls down at the various feeding stations, I heard a soft knock on my door. Wondering if it were the return of someone from the intervention group, I clicked on the porch light and peered out the window. No one was there, nor could I see anyone on the walkway. No one was at the curb or getting into a car.

  Shrugging, I figured it must have been a mistake. I turned away and then for no good reason turned back and cracked the door. As the opening widened, something blew in across the threshold.

  I gaped at the slip of paper that lay at my feet shuddering as if it had a life of its own. I knew it was just a trick of the wind, but the weird effect made the hair on my neck stand up like the fur on a Halloween cat. I shut the door fast and looked back. Sure enough, the thing gave one final shiver and was still.

  I’d never seen one like it, and the face of the heavy bond square was blank, but I knew it just the same. The color gave it away. I mean, how many suspicious purple notes does one get in a lifetime? Simon had received five so far, one with my name on it. I stared at the square, thinking Superman’s x-ray vision would come in handy right then. I don’t know why I was hesitant to touch it—‌it was actually very pretty with its soft orchid hue—‌but it could have been cat yack for the aversion I felt toward picking it up. I guess it was knowing that if it were in fact from the killer, I would be holding more than a piece of paper in my hand: I would be holding someone’s life.

  But pick it up I did. What choice was there? I turned it over to see whose number was up next. Would it be me? Would it be Simon? Would it be Buffalo Bill or Mr. Magoo?

  Surprisingly the back was blank as well. Flipping it from side to side, I wondered about the possibility of invisible ink. Unlikely and slightly ridiculous, my imagination was getting the best of me. Again.

  Then suddenly I thought about fingerprints. It was a little late since I’d probably smushed mine all over top, but I went to the kitchen, got a fresh baggie, and slipped the paper inside just in case. I thought about calling the police but wondered what I’d say: “Hey, 911, I just received a suspicious piece of paper?” I thought about calling Simon but wasn’t sure I wanted to go down that road either. I thought about calling my mother but she would worry. Plopping myself down on the couch, the baggie still in my hand, I let the cats come and crawl on top of me, my mind as blank as that slip of purple bond.

  * * *r />
  Little was sitting sphinxlike on my knee. Red lounged behind me on the sofa, his lovely marmalade ring-tail draped over my shoulder like a live feather boa. Harry was in his donut, snoring softly. Mab and Violet were playing upstairs. I could hear Mab’s fairy-soft footfalls running circles around the overweight Violet. They were an odd pair, but Violet had taken a liking to the Siamese kitten and was actually losing some girth through the natural and healthy exercise of play.

  I had decided that staring at the purple note was a waste of time so I turned on the television and stared at it instead. I’d found a station that played classics and was alternately chuckling and weeping through an episode of M*A*S*H* when, with a flash and a sputter, the screen winked out. The lights went off, the refrigerator died into silence, and suddenly I was staring into total dark.

  Not quite total, I noticed as my eyes began to adjust. I rose, dislodging a cat or two, and crossed to the window. The streetlights were still on, shining wanly through the silver rain, and the houses around me seemed okay as well. There were a few dark windows, but those folk might just be out for the evening.

  “Rats,” I said out loud. That meant it was my system and now I would have to go down into in the basement to check the circuit box.

  My basement was scary at the best of times. I made a habit of going there as little as possible, which probably added to its dereliction. My washer and dryer were down there as well as a pantry for my canning goods so there was a clear patch of clean around those spaces but everything else was storage and neglect, spider webs and gross things I can’t even name. The floor was ancient cement with cracks that leaked up from the ground when there was too much rain. The low beams were rough wood from ancient old growth forest where the dust stuck thick, even after a hit with the vacuum brush. There were two windows, both small and dingy. I’d thought about covering them with plywood so the burglars couldn’t get in, but it hadn’t been high on my list. Maybe I should rethink that plan now that my life was in danger.

  The only danger I had to face at the moment, however, was going down to check the circuit breaker, and that was only risky because I was a klutz in the dark. A flashlight would solve everything.

  I made my way to the kitchen and the drawer where I kept emergency articles. I felt around, and as my hand closed on the familiar chrome barrel, I congratulated myself for being prepared. When I clicked the switch and the light came on, dull but steady, I congratulated myself again. Taking a deep breath, I headed for the basement door.

  I may not like my basement, but there was someone in my household who did. Little could hear the rattle of that particular doorknob from anywhere in the house, and as if by magic, she would appear underfoot, trying to get down. Only half of the basement was finished, the other half a dirt-floored crawl space where I had no desire to crawl to retrieve a cat. The black female had made it by me a few times, coming out several hours later, nearly brown with dust and webs. Thus the rule: no cats in the basement.

  I carefully closed the door tight behind me as I descended the steep stairs. As predicted, I heard a frustrated yoww from the other side. Just in time, I thought to myself. A black cat in a lightless basement was not something I wanted to deal with on top of everything else.

  I perched on the bottom step and pointed the flashlight at the floor to see if it was flooded. I was pleased to see bone-dry cement stretching out into the shadows. I raised the light and aimed it toward the metal box on the other side of the room. The beam, weakened to a mere smattering of photons in the large space, showed only an outline, but that was enough. If it were a tripped breaker, I could reset it; if not, then I’d have to spend a lightless night and call the electrician in the morning.

  Darkness fell for a second time; now it was the flashlight. I gave it a shake and it came back on, but only dimly, a light so soft I could see the tiny bulb glowing red in its mirror half-shell. I thought about trying to make it across to the box before it died completely. I was pretty certain I could get there, but if it failed me then, I’d have no way of knowing which of the many switches to flip. I could feel for something out of place, but it had been years, maybe even decades since I’d had to mess with the circuit breaker. The prudent thing would be to go back upstairs, get new batteries, then try again.

  Smart call, I thought as the light faded out again, this time for good. I turned and felt my way back up the wooden steps. Tucking the useless flashlight under my arm, I reached for he ceramic knob, found it and...

  Nothing! What was it with me and locked doors?

  I turned it again, then rattled it, shook it, jiggled it back and forth, but still the door didn’t budge. Ice ran through my veins; I could feel it displacing the warm red blood until all that was left was frost. I repeated the turning-‌jiggling-‌rattling, added some pounding and yelling, but nothing could change the fact that the door was fixed shut.

  My mind raced. My hand glued itself to the ceramic knob, my baffled brain assuring me it would open sooner or later. The mechanism was old but not the sort that could lock itself. Only a human hand could have clicked that latch, and since I hadn’t done it myself, since I was alone in the house...

  A new thought dawned, a million times scarier than the creepy basement factor. There was only one person who might have locked me down there with deliberate malice. The same person who had delivered the purple note. The same person who was killing people. Was it finally my turn to feel the thrust of the needle, the rush of drugs followed by the curtain of death? I had a crazy flash that shooting heroin would mean I would have to change my sobriety date. I laughed. Sobriety is a moot point when you’re dead.

  “Oh, God,” I half-sighed half-prayed. “What now?” Aside from the door, there was no other way out unless I took to breaking the small windows, then crawling up through the jagged shards of the broken glass.

  I recalled the last time I had been imprisoned in a basement. But at Cloverleaf Animal Sanctuary I at least had a couch. And a light. And a cat. And it was because they thought I was the killer, not because the killer wanted to kill me. Compared to this, that other incarceration had been a mild inconvenience, a blow to the ego, a slight frustration, nothing more.

  I tried the door again just to be sure it wasn’t all a bad dream, then shouted a few choice obscenities into the blackness. From the other side, all I heard was a small, sad meow.

  I sank like a waif onto the dusty stair tread. I had to think. If someone had indeed locked the door, they might still be in the house. They might let the cats out! They might hurt them! I had to pull it together, for my cats’ sake if not for my own.

  This wasn’t the first time concern for my cats had given me the strength and courage to go on. I took a deep breath and considered my options. Since I couldn’t get out, I might as well try for the thing I had come to do in the first place, turn the lights back on. If I could see, I’d feel a whole lot better, and it might scare off the intruder who probably didn’t want to be noticed messing around in my house. I had nosey neighbors who liked to keep track of comings and goings. Killer-boy might not want to take chances getting caught.

  Leaving the useless flashlight on the stair, I rose and, with the help of the handrail, went back down to the concrete landing. Still grasping the rail, I turned the sharp corner and tapped my toe until I felt the edge of the single step down to the basement proper. One cautious foot at a time, I shuffled ahead.

  Letting go of my hand hold, I reached out to my right. It was farther than I would have thought, but finally my fingers met the smooth wood of the long canning table. I steadied myself, ignoring a twinge in my wrist, and moved forward. I was doing well, picking up confidence, when my toe rammed into something hard. Pain shot up my leg. There was a clatter as a pile of screens from my old food dryer rained painfully down on the soft tops of my slippered feet. I made a mental note that next time I explored my basement in the dark, I should wear boots.

  Carefully limping around the unseen clutter, I turned toward the washer
and dryer. Since this was well-traveled territory, I made an uneventful crossing. From there, it was just a few more feet to the wall and the circuit box. Around a few paint cans, over a balled up drop cloth, and there I was. The galvanized steel was welcome against the palm of my hand. I felt for the latch, turned it and opened the flat door. Somewhere in that bed of darkness was the main switch. I ran my fingers over the double columns and found it, bigger and centered and facing the opposite way from the rest.

  I flipped it, then jumped back just in case it was booby-trapped, nearly toppling myself over a five gallon bucket filled with heavy who-knows-what. The switch clacked into place. I was unhurt. Since there had been no lights on in the basement when the house went dark, I had yet to see if my efforts had been successful.

  Edging back to the other side of the laundry machines, I waved my hand like a Rose Festival princess until I found the pull chain for the bare bulb fixture over the utility sink. I pulled. It lit with all the happy brilliance a forty-watt bulb can muster. For a moment I blinked like a mole, then without thought, collapsed onto the grimy concrete.

  I heard footsteps clambering across the floor above, moving fast through the living room. I staggered to my feet, stared around me, then grabbed a screwdriver and a hammer from the tool table and sprinted for the stairs. As I reached them, I heard my front door slam and someone run across the porch and down to the street. I took the stairs two at a time, stuck the screwdriver in the lock and took aim with the hammer. I was about to hit when something stopped me. Pulling back, I tried the doorknob one last time. With exasperating ease, it opened, and I found myself staring into the wide yellow eyes of Little.

  Chapter 31

  Do cats see things we don’t? Cats may not see spirits, aliens, or creatures from another dimension, but they do perceive ultraviolet light, a form of light usually invisible to humans. Everything from psychedelic stripes on flowers to flashy patterned feathers on birds are likely detectable by cats, according to a paper published in the Royal Society’s Proceedings B.