Cat's Paw

by Mollie Hunt

  First thing was to check the cats. It didn’t take long with the tempting rattle of a foil treat bag to find them all safe and accounted for. Now that I was no longer frightened or worried, I was angry. My first thought was Simon. I couldn’t imagine why he would torture me like that, but he had broken into my house before. I’d changed the alarm code but couldn’t remember if I had set it after Frannie left, and I hadn’t changed the lock. Might he have had a key made and stashed it for just such an occasion?

  For the second time that night, I didn’t call the police. The thought of Simon stopped me in my tracks. If Simon hadn’t locked me in the basement, I didn’t want to give my old friend more grief; if he had, my faith in humankind as well as my own instincts would be shaken forever, and I just couldn’t stand that.

  I locked and double locked my doors, set the alarm, then heated a bowl of winter vegetable soup in the microwave and made a pot of sleepy-time tea. I carried my repast up to my bedroom and laid it out on the small table by the window. Going back down, I began to search out the cats once more. It took a bit of doing, but I wrangled them upstairs as well, every one, until I had a bedroom full of furry felines. I made one last trip to retrieve my phone, my purse, and an ice bag for my wrist which had begun to throb. I turned off all the lights now that I had finally got them on, ready to hole in for the night.

  My bedroom is actually a duo of rooms with a deadbolt on the door, installed long ago when I still had teenage children in the house. Lisa was a good girl, but some of her friends, not so much. Better safe than sorry, I had decided when one of the buddies had been caught stealing my earrings. The lock had come in handy, then and since. When I felt especially paranoid living alone in the big house, I could give myself an extra assurance that no one was going to sneak up and kill me in the night. This was the first time the possibility had been more than a figment of my imagination.

  The foyer to the bedroom had a litter box and a food station for the cats. Not as fancy as downstairs but they could make do. Most of them slept with me anyway so it wouldn’t be much different. I put the phone by my bed and began to shed my clothes, swapping jeans and sweater for the fuzziest bathrobe I had. I sank into the easy chair with a huge sigh. The soup smelled good; the tea steamed cozily. Harry, Big Red, and Little were already curled up on the bed, their orange, black, and white blending with the antique velvet crazy quilt like furry patchwork. The others were scattered around the room obliviously doing cat things. By the soft light from the lamp by my bed, the scene couldn’t have been more peaceful.

  Suddenly Dirty Harry sat upright, ears forward, eyes wide, watching. A moment later he was off the bed, stalking toward me. Toward the window, I realized as he leapt up on the little table, nearly displacing my tea cup.

  He stared outside with the intensity of an owl. I rescued my tea and followed his gaze into the blackness. The rain had let up, leaving only a few lonely wisps of mist floating ghost-like through the crisp night. In the streetlight glare, nothing moved. At least nothing my aging human eyes could make out.

  “What is it, Harry?” I asked, petting the old cat’s back. “Is there another kitty?”

  Predictably catlike, he ignored me. Pressing his face close to the glass, I heard the rumble of a growl.

  * * *

  In spite of the trials, tribulations, and Harry’s eerie glares, I’d slept well and wakened refreshed. I was determined to take Frannie’s advice and put the murders aside, at least for the time being. In the brilliant sunlight of the perfect fall morning, I had nearly convinced myself that the basement latch, old as it was, had somehow locked and unlocked itself, that the footfalls I heard were merely those of a cat, and that the purple square must have fallen out of Simon’s pocket when he left. There was no name on it after all, so what harm could it be?

  I already had the day planned out. First Tinkerbelle and I would visit Cedar Crest Memory Care, then we would come back home for lunch, after which I would drive to the shelter and do some work with the ringworm cats, just as Frannie suggested. My car was still in the shop, but my insurance company had provided a very nice Kia Soul loaner which I was having fun driving. Unlike the Toyota, it was an automatic, and I had no trouble guiding it singlehandedly. I doubted I’d switch my Toyota loyalty, but now I knew why those hamsters in the commercials were having so much fun.

  Around five, I would treat myself to an early dinner at Milo’s, an unpretentious Greek restaurant I had discovered nearby, then home again, get comfortable, feed the cats, and watch a DVD. Something light like Rosemary & Thyme or The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency. No, I’d skip the murder mysteries altogether and go for ultra-light—‌maybe an old Danny Kaye musical.

  I also had a list of things I was not going to do: I was not going to see or speak to anyone who was involved with the murders; I was not going to let myself slip into depressing or self-recriminating moods; and most important of all, I was absolutely in no way going to think about serial killers who might at that very moment be stalking me.

  After a hearty breakfast of leftover two-day-old pizza and a cup of strong Hoji-cha tea, I washed and groomed Tinkerbelle for her outing. I checked my visit bag for all the things I might need at the center: notebook and pen; list of residents’ names (they weren’t the only ones who had memory problems—‌when it came to names, I was hopeless); a mini clean-up kit in case of accidents; a soft brush and a ribbon toy; and my ID badge.

  The day was so gorgeous I decided we would walk the few blocks to the center. To be more precise, I would walk and Tink would ride in her carrier pouch which fit like a pack across my chest. She enjoyed the cozy space and snuggled with only her black furry head sticking out, relishing the view.

  I grabbed my purse and the visit bag, locked the door, and ventured out into the day. The weather was mild, almost warm. The sun filtered in beatific rays through waffle clouds shaded from pink to slate. The landscape sparkled with rain-washed brilliance. As I descended the front steps and passed through the gate, a peace came over me that I hadn’t known for a very long time.

  I started off down the street, delighting in the fall colors. Red leaves glittered on the half-bare branches of the ornamental plum trees and the gingko on the corner shone golden. Late zinnias and chrysanthemums still persevered, red and puce heads perfect in spite of the showers. Moss had grown in the cracks of the old neighborhood’s sidewalk, thick as carpet. There were even a few Portland roses in bloom, gems perched boldly on the hibernating vines.

  Tinkerbelle and I had gone a block north and a few more west, heading up the slight incline toward Mt. Tabor Park, when I heard a vehicle coming up fast behind us. A dirty brownish boat of a car screeched to a stop, careening against the curb. Tinkerbelle hunkered down in her pouch and I jumped back in alarm. The passenger door flew open, nearly striking my thigh. I sidestepped, staring daggers at the driver who had dared to threaten my serenity.

  The woman whipped off a pair of sunglasses and leaned across the seat. “Get in!” she commanded. “Quick, Lynley!” she added when I stood gaping.

  I edged a few inches closer, clasped an arm over Tinkerbelle, and frowned down into the car. It took me a moment to come to terms with a face so oddly out of place in my neck of the woods. “Tulsa? Tulsa Thorpe? What are you doing here?”

  “No time to explain. Just get in! I’ll tell you on the way.”

  “On the way where?”

  I thought it was a logical question but she gave a little cry. “If you value your life,” she moaned frantically, “you will do as I ask.”

  Her urgency was getting to me, and my heart beat fast with impending doom. “Oh, no, what now?” I stared around me, suddenly seeing danger everywhere.

  She reached for me, beckoning. “Get in, quickly. There isn’t much time.”

  Giving in to panic, I did as I was told. Re-donning her sunglasses, she had the car in gear and was pulling away before I’d even got the door closed. I hefted my visit bag into the back seat and settled Tinkerbelle with p
ets and coos. Then I looked at Tulsa: the wavy red-gold hair, the pale complexion. It had been three months since I’d last seen Simon’s right-hand man, but I didn’t remember that sharp edge to her lilting voice or her jaw being set so sternly. With a shock, I realized that underneath the mirror lenses, she was crying.

  “What’s the matter, Tulsa? Has something happened? Is it Simon?”

  Taking the narrow residential streets far too fast for my liking, she jagged left and right, giving me no clue as to her final destination. Now that I was in the vehicle, she seemed satisfied to remain silent.

  Tinkerbelle squirmed in her pouch, wondering why I wasn’t letting her out. The carry pouch was for walking, and in usual circumstances, once we’d finished our walk, I would let her free. She knew the routine and was flustered by the deviation.

  “Not yet, Tink,” I muttered, petting her back into passivity. “Tulsa?” I insisted.

  The girl gave me a quick glance, then turned back to the road. We were on Glisan now, a main thoroughfare that ran through Portland’s east side all the way to the suburb of Gresham. She was cruising in and out of traffic. I somehow had never suspected the fragile girl of being such a crazy driver.

  She blinked fast and wiped away a tear with a forefinger. “Yes, it’s Simon,” she finally said in the low tone reserved for tragedy.

  My heart fell, taking my equilibrium with it. I felt a wave of anxiety engulf me as time shifted into the alternate reality reserved for the bizarre. “Is he okay?” I asked stupidly, already knowing the answer.

  “He’s been hurt. He may not make it. He’s asking for you.”

  “Where is he?” I did a quick calculation of the hospitals out this direction. “Willamette Falls?”

  Tulsa swerved around a TriMet bus, so close she nearly took out a tail light. The bus beeped a warning, but we were long gone.

  “Tulsa, slow down!” I blurted.

  Again the look. I wished she would keep her eyes on the road. “Don’t you care about your friend? After all he’s done for you?”

  I found the statement peculiar but replied, “Of course I care. Just tell me what’s going on.”

  She veered to pass an old-model truck, displacing a car that was coming up in the left lane. I watched with horror in the side mirror as it turned sharply to avoid hitting her and nearly hit the truck instead. Tulsa was oblivious. I had never seen such intensity on the young face and it scared me even more than her driving.

  “Tulsa,” I began, but she cut me off as quickly as she had the small car.

  “Shut up and let me drive,” she snapped, then added in a softer tone, “We’ll be there soon and then I’ll explain everything. I promise.”

  Closing a protective hand over Tinkerbelle and grasping the armrest, I held on for dear life.

  * * *

  It wasn’t much longer until she spun left off Glisan onto a small side street. Instantly the scenery changed from fast food restaurants, gas stations, and grocery stores to residential homes. Most of the tiny houses had seen better days: gardens, if they could be called that, were small and unkempt; derelict cars lay dead in driveways, or in some cases, on the lawn itself; a glut of faded plastic furniture and toys stood abandoned, waiting for their owners to figure out it wasn’t summer anymore. In contrast, tall fir trees loomed like proud green candles, oblivious to the human encroachment. Ancient horse chestnuts overhung the streets, their golden leaves still falling gently to become dun mush in the parking strip.

  This was nowhere near Willamette Falls Hospital, nowhere near anything I knew. Tulsa had slowed to an only vaguely frightening thirty miles an hour—‌still too fast for my liking but an improvement on her previous death-race pace—‌so I ventured one of the hundred questions playing through my mind.

  “Where are we?” I was going to continue with the other ninety-nine, but this time she answered right away.

  “Almost there, Lynley. Don’t worry, you’ll see.”

  “Now look,” I began, but was thrown against the door as we made a fast left into a long gravel driveway. The car jerked along the pot-holed lane past a small, vacant-looking house into a nest of firs. She spun out in the muddy back yard and lurched to a stop.

  Turning off the motor and pulling the keys from the ignition, she sat back and sighed. “Here we are.”

  I looked around at the forlorn surroundings. Despite the sunshine, it was gloomy in the arbor’s shadow. Errant undergrowth obscured the neighboring houses, giving the illusion of secluded woodlands, the kind where you don’t want to get lost.

  “And what’s here?” I half-huffed-‌half-whined in desperation.

  She gazed inscrutably at me. “The house belongs to a friend.”

  “And Simon’s inside?” I still couldn’t put it together.

  Her face morphed into a portraiture of gloom. “We must see him right away. He’s asking for you.” She grimaced, her tone lowering to an ominous whisper. “It took me a while to find you. I hope it’s not too late.”

  I shook my head. Something was not right about this scenario. As a matter of fact, a whole raft of things weren’t right but I couldn’t quite process them into rational thought.

  Tulsa was already out of the car. She came around to my side and opened the door. “Hurry!”

  Turning, she moved to the back steps. For lack of a better plan, I followed. Standing behind her as she rifled her large canvas carry-all for the keys, I couldn’t help but note how quiet it was. A sough from the treetops, the echo of crows. The buzz of traffic was far off and muted though I knew we had traveled only a matter of blocks.

  Tulsa got the door open and popped inside. She shed her jean jacket to reveal a shapeless purple peasant dress, yellow tights, and bright green Dansko sandals. The contrasting colors vibrating against each other made me slightly nauseated.

  “Come in, Lynley,” she beckoned and I came like a trained poodle. The minute I moved past her into the darkened room, I knew I’d made a mistake.

  “Where’s Simon?” I demanded, afraid I already knew the answer.

  She closed the door, then locked the deadbolt from the inside and dropped the key in the pocket of her voluminous dress. When I heard the click of the latch echo through the empty house, I understood.

  The orchid frock, the exact same shade as the fateful death notes, should have given her away. Maybe I was wrong, maybe I was letting my imagination run wild but I didn’t think so. Simon wasn’t here, probably never had been. This was all about me.

  Instinctively I scanned for a weapon, something with which I could threaten the crazy girl while I ran for my life, but I came up empty; the place was as barren as an unoccupied rental. The kitchen, from what I could make out in the shadows, was stark—‌no small appliances on the counter, not even a dish or utensil, let alone a knife. I rushed to the small living room but found much the same thing, a featureless square with worn pine flooring and unadorned walls of smoker’s beige-gray. A bricked-up fireplace was set into one side, and a bay window faced front, heavily curtained. The single bedroom held the only sign of life, a straight-backed chair and a futon mat topped with a snarl of blankets. I peeked into the bathroom—‌not so much as a toothbrush.

  Moving to the front door, I found another deadbolt lock, all shiny and new, and me without the key. In an act of fright and frustration, I rattled the faux-brass knob.

  Tinkerbelle was done with laying low. Scrabbling with her back paws, she sprung from the pouch. Giving me a dirty look and a small meow of contempt, she stalked into a corner, circled, and lay down. I started after her, then hesitated. Until I found a way out, she was probably safer on her own.

  That left only one option. Heart pounding, I pulled off the empty carrier and returned to my captor.

  Tulsa stood, arms crossed, her face inscrutable. Happy? Sad? The only thing I knew for sure was that she was insane.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I began.

  She laughed, meeting my boldness head-on. “You’re a smart lad
y. You figure it out.”

  “I barely know you and couldn’t begin to guess what’s going on in your mind. Why don’t you spell it out for me?”

  She gave a little chuckle, pulled off the sunglasses revealing slightly bloodshot eyes, and hefted her tote onto the kitchen counter. As she rummaged in the big bag, I realized I’d left my own things in the car. Not that the soft cat brush, toys, or leash and harness would have done me much good. Maybe I could have choked her with the leash or poked her in the eye with the wand end of the string toy but sadly it was not to be.

  Unarmed and helpless, I braced for the confrontation that I knew was to come. Because, after all, little Tulsa Thorpe was the serial killer, the monster who had been murdering Simon’s friends.

  Chapter 32

  “The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.”―Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi

  “Why?”

  I asked the question, yes—‌to get her talking, but mostly out of plain old cat-like curiosity which was known to hit me at the most inappropriate times.

  Again the laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” she asked in melodic tones that coldly contradicted the content of her words.

  Still delving into her tote, she pulled a few things out and lay them on the counter: a tapestry wallet, a Hello Kitty thermos bottle, a green make-up bag with white polka dots.

  “Actually I would. Like to know,” I said, inching ever so slowly toward the kitchen door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Anywhere but here,” I mumbled under my breath. I wondered if I could overpower her. She was slight but I was old. Still, if she was going to do what I thought she was going to do to me, what did I have to lose?

  “Don’t even think about it,” she charged as if reading my mind.

  There was something in that icy tone. I found myself standing down without knowing why.

  She gave me the evil eye and returned her attention to her search. With an aha! sound, she pulled something out. I couldn’t see what it was until she pivoted on her heel, a bundle of zip ties in her hand.