“I have no quarrel with you, Queen of Cats,” the thing spat, as if courtesy tasted as bad to it as foul water.
I wondered at the things sudden onset of manners, then noticed motion in the shadows. Other feline forms moved at the edge of the yard. A great many of them. I think both the creature and I realized at the same time that it might be in serious trouble.
“It is with men and their dogs that I make war,” it continued, hate dripping from its every word.
“As I said,” Saipan smoothly replied, “the world has changed. No longer do cats hunt in the barns and granaries outside the houses of men while the dogs roam free. Now those dogs are trapped in a world of fences, and it is those houses we cats live in that you threaten…a threat that we have no intention of tolerating.”
Feline eyes now glowed from porches and rooftops along the street.
“Know this, Foul One. From this day forward, the claws of all cats are turned against you. You will find nothing but death by us at the houses of men. After tonight, you shall find no further mercy from our kind.”
“To be succinct,” she summed up, “you are now a ‘cat matter.’”
The creature panted and drooled as its one good eye scanned the still growing number of feline eyes that stared back at it. It took no great intellect for the thing to realize that any sort of fight now would be suicidal on its part. With a final snarl of frustration, the thing took off across the yard at an angle away from Saipan, and then scuttled across the street into a wooded lot between two houses. Saipan watched it disappear into the trees with nonchalant coolness.
A second later, a ferocious snarl which could only have come from one dog erupted from those trees, and the scream of the monster cut through the night.
“But lest you forget,” Saipan purred in that direction, “you are still a ‘dog matter’ too.”
There was a brief thrashing in the trees, then silence once again returned to the damp neighborhood street. Even the wind momentarily abated.
Harlin trotted out of the woods, the creature’s body hanging limp from his fearsome jaws. His nails clicked on the asphalt as he slowed and walked out into the center of the dark street, for all to see. His feral yellow eyes met Saipan’s cool blue ones, and he gave a wolfish grin as the body slowly evaporated in his mouth. For a moment longer, they stared across the street at each other, neither moving a muscle. Then the still grinning dog turned without a word, and trotted back into the trees.
Once he left, Saipan jumped down from the mailbox and crossed the yard toward me.
“And now for you, O Most Disobedient of Cats,” she gently scolded. “What am I to do with one who listens to wisdom but does not heed it?”
I discovered with a groan that I could now raise my head. My leg still hung useless though, and I still felt too weak to stand. I made my best effort at a submissive dip of my head, and then pulled myself over to the wall of the house and under the protection of the eaves in case it rained. I collapsed there in an exhausted heap.
“I suppose I shall just let your injuries be lesson enough in themselves,” she continued, while she and Pancake came up and lay down beside me. Their shared heat would increase my odds for survival. The night was young and there still remained the matter of the approaching storm. Gently curling up against me and licking my face, she continued, “We shall stay the night here with you and keep you warm, till your Lady finds you in the morning. After that, I expect a cat that is more receptive to my advice in the future. And in the future, I would also hope it is me you seek out for that advice, and not the most homicidal dog you can find.”
She paused in her ministrations and glared at me with stern blue gems for eyes. For a moment, I expected her to cuff me like she would a kitten.
Then with a sly look of pride she added, “But I must admit, that was one mighty fight you gave that monster, Minke. Even Harlin was impressed. I think your friend, Chipper, would have been proud.”
As odd as it sounds, that last thought is what truly kept me warm through the rest of the long night.
Between Friends
The moon shone full, silvering the slow moving waters that flowed past the shadowed overgrowth on the banks of the Brazos River. Frog song filled the night air, with some night bird piping in from time to time to liven things up. The smells and sounds of the river, mixed like a stew that bubbled at a slow boil. Even this far past sundown, the August heat lay like a blanket down in these woods.
Cotton, Les, Parker, and I used to come here at night to hunt deer and coon. We smoked, drank, and shared dreams along these banks…unable to imagine a world where we would ever want to do anything else. But the world and the war found us, and we marched off to do our duty to God and Country. Now, after slogging through the bloodstained fields of France, I wanted no more of mud and mosquitos.
This was the first time I had found my way down here in years, and it wasn’t to hunt coon. Tonight I hoped to find a few answers instead.
Cotton Turner had been found dead at the Palace Drive-in. Archie Johnson, the owner who lived in a trailer behind the back screen, said he heard a honk out front. Getting dressed, he went out to find Cotton locked in his rusted old Cadillac with a German butcher bayonet driven through his heart. Archie said it took him just a couple of minutes to get dressed, but by the time he got out there he could only see Cotton’s old car. The drive-in stayed closed on Wednesday, it being a church night, so Cotton didn’t go there to see a show. Besides, movies were just a little too social for his tastes.
Cotton returned from the war a changed man. The loudmouthed, easy going youth with an eye for blondes, no longer existed. When we got together after the war, he maybe met with us a couple of times…and even then he didn’t have much to say. I guess he saw enough of the world, at least the part he saw over there with us, because he grabbed a bottle and retreated to a little shack that lay back in the woods along the Brazos.
I tried to stay in touch with him but, even though he never showed any hostility in my direction, I sensed no effort to maintain the friendship on his part. And years later when he approached me with his “proposition,” I refused as much from pity as from anger. I felt it a squalid, unimpressive attempt at blackmail, and I wrote it off as him being drunk…just to give him the benefit of the doubt. From that point on, I gave up and concentrated on picking up and getting on with my own life.
These days I had a job at the local paper and a cute little bird picking floral arrangements for our big day, so Cotton faded from my list of priorities.
Not tonight, though. His murder raised some serious problems. Problems that I needed to make sure didn’t come out of nowhere and bite me in the back.
Now I pushed past the brambles hanging into the dark path to the shanty he came to call home. He built it in the same area we all hunted in so long ago. I stayed here plenty of times, back before the war when this had been one of our favorite campsites. Ahead, I could see the warm yellow glow of a lantern peeking through the underbrush. That didn’t surprise me a whole lot.
As a matter of fact, that didn’t surprise me one little bit.
Stepping out into the small clearing that surrounded the shack, I could see Les and Parker facing each other on the porch. One of them must have hung the lantern from the hook by the door. For a couple of old friends, they didn’t look too happy to see each other at the moment. Both were frowning, squared off against each other, and both were armed.
Les Patterson became a county deputy when he got back and married Kathleen Meadows, our class head cheerleader. Handsome and clean cut, he cut a popular image in his uniform around town. He did his job with pleasant efficiency, maintaining order in Cole County without any undue stepping on toes. Nobody doubted for a second who would be replacing Sheriff Gartner when he retired in a few years.
Parker Hamilton cut a different figure. Short and stout, Parker had come back to sign on as an assistant coach to the high school football team. Last year he took over as head coach and led th
e team to the state semifinals. This year, the team looked even better. In a Texas town like Hallisboro, a winning high school football coach ranked as an important man around town. Many went on to become city counselors, mayors, and the like.
“Howdy, Pat.” Les drawled, “I wondered when you were going to show up. Get lost?”
“Hi, Les. It’s been a while since I’ve been down here.” I rejoined, “Howdy Parker.”
“Evening, Pat.” Parker replied, “Good to see you.”
It promised to be one hell of a reunion…the three of us standing there in the yellow light of that little river shack, surrounded by the night sounds of the Brazos, waiting for somebody to say the obvious. Les leaned against one of the support poles, his arms folded and his .38 sitting prominently on his hip. I could also see the butt of Parker’s Army .45 showing above his waistband as he stood there by the door. My own snub nosed .38 rested in my jacket pocket.
“One of us killed Cotton.” Les began, “And we all know why. Now I’m trying to figure out which one of you did it.”
“Seems to me,” Parker responded, “You have as much reason to want him dead as either of us. Maybe more.”
The tension in the air felt thicker than the humidity. I knew that I hadn’t wanted Cotton dead, I just wanted him to get a grip and remember who his friends were. On the other hand, I could see how the other two could have felt otherwise. And I also knew they would think I felt the same way. We all stood to lose everything, and that made for three nervous trigger fingers.
“Anybody been inside?” I tried to change the course of the conversation, “I figure we all know what we’re looking for here.”
“Just caught Parker coming out when I arrived,” Les nodded towards Parker and the door. “Looks like the early worm got the evidence.”
Parker looked from Les to me, and then back again. With a shrug, he pulled a small book out of his jacket and tossed it on the rickety wooden chair that sat beside the door. It was bound in oiled leather, worn and scuffed from a journey over the shores and down the mud soaked roads of hell itself.
“We’ve been worrying about that book for seven years. I didn’t see any point in waiting and risking it falling into the wrong hands.”
“And who’s hands would those be, Parker?” Les growled.
“Les, calm down.” I soothed, “He obviously meant anybody other than us three. If Cotton’s dead, that book can’t do anybody any good. It can do nothing more than hurt people now.”
“It’s a motive for murder.” Les gritted, shifting his stance.
“Who are you accusing Les?” Parker went white, “I didn’t kill Cotton. Come to think of it, I didn’t steal that truck in Paris and I didn’t throw that grenade. But it occurs to me that if you murdered Cotton, then you could cover your own ass in a lot of ways by pinning it on me.”
“Don’t push it, Parker.”
“I’m not afraid of you, Les. You ain’t pinning this one on me, just because I got here first. Both of you showed up within ten minutes of me getting here. Sounds like I wasn’t alone in my hurry. How about Pat over there? He’s got him a wedding coming up. Maybe he ain’t so indifferent to Cotton’s threats no more.”
“How about it, Pat?” Les drawled, “Did Cotton look you up lately? Maybe started talking too loud around that little lady of yours?”
“I haven’t seen Cotton in a couple of months.”
“That so…”
I started going cold. I didn’t want to shoot anybody over what must have been written in that book, but I damn sure wouldn’t let somebody else kill me over it either. Whichever of these two killed Cotton, they had now crossed a line to bury the past. Crossing it again would be easier the second time. The other two would know that too, which made this situation much more dangerous.
Les shifted slightly, his right hand now free. Parker’s eyes narrowed, darting from Les to me and then back to Les. My throat tightened, recognizing the signs that things were reaching a head. One wrong move in the next minute, and the war would take another casualty or three.
###
General von Choltitz surrendered in August of 1944, and Paris reveled in its freedom.
The city celebrated as one huge party. Parades, music, and alcohol were the order of the day. I wandered from bar to bar, celebrating the victory anew at each stop. I bumped into Les Patterson in a dark little bar along the Seine, doing some celebrating of his own. We hadn’t seen each other since we shipped out, and it felt good knowing he still lived.
“Pat!” he crowed at the sight of me, “I figured the Krauts got you for sure! Pull up a girl and sit down!” Les always possessed a way with the fairer sex and currently entertained two of their prettier members, one on each side of him. He was telling them what probably amounted to huge lies about his exploits, but I never figured out if they even spoke English so I guess it didn’t matter.
“Les, I figured you would be General by now, what with all that derring-do that you do.” I grinned back, “Have you heard any word on Cotton and Parker?”
“Oh, I see them from time to time.” He yawned, “They’re both alive, healthy, and in the same unit. Better yet, they just rolled into town last night and I figure they’ll be on leave by this evening. So you might want to warm up that drinking arm, because it’s going to get some serious exercise tonight.
And that is exactly the way it went down.
We met Parker and Cotton that night at a little café on the Champs-Elysees, and then marched off together into the warm Parisian night. We were drunk as lords, and got thrown out of at least three bars over the next two hours. Stumbling through the ancient streets, we serenaded every woman we met…and one horse that Parker swore looked like one of Cotton’s old girlfriends.
Sometime after that, one of us stole that officer’s jeep. Les and Parker both said I did the deed, but I don’t remember doing it. On the other hand, I don’t remember a lot of that night. I only know I achieved a level of inebriation that I never thought possible. I must have been walking, talking, and stealing automobiles while unconscious. I recall nothing after the horse.
The next thing I knew, I woke up sitting beside Parker with a head the size of Jupiter. Parker blearily wove the jeep down some country road, wandering from one ditch to the other. Behind me, I heard Les ask Cotton if he intended to throw up again anytime soon. I guess I must have slept through that. I must have slept through a lot, because then I noticed my surroundings. Nothing but fields and the occasional shell of a farmhouse greeted my eyes.
“Where’s Paris?” I moaned, cradling my enormous head in both hands.
“Beats me,” Parker groaned, “I just came to a little while ago and discovered I was driving this thing. Does anybody read French?”
A quick check with the others revealed that road signs were going to be of limited value to us.
“Take a left at that crossroads ahead, and drive up on that hill,” Les ordered, “maybe we can see something of use from up there.”
“Aye aye, Cap’n.” Parker turned the jeep and headed up the indicated hill.
“It’s ‘Sergeant’.”
“Nobody says ‘Aye aye, Sergeant,’ Les. That just sounds wrong.”
The jeep jounced up the hill, which appeared to be crowned with a small church and a couple of attending buildings. I held on to my Jupiter sized head and hoped it didn’t bounce off. I started making promises to God, or whoever else that would listen, that I would give real money to all the world’s worthy causes if they would make Parker stop hitting every pothole in the road. He must not have been listening, or liked me too much to honor that request, because the bouncing saved our lives.
My face stung as I got peppered with glass bits, and I found myself staring at a small hole that magically appeared in the windshield. A split second later a flat crack, which experience taught me belonged to a Karabiner 98k, echoed across the countryside. I screamed at Les and Cotton to get down, and for Parker to get this thing off the road.
&nbs
p; We were in the sights of a Nazi sniper.
Parker yanked the jeep to the left and nosed it down into the ditch as another bullet took off our side mirror. We piled out and dove for cover behind the low wall running alongside the road. Chips flew as another shot pockmarked the wall.
“Did anybody see him?” I hissed.
“Yeah, I caught his muzzle flash on that second shot.” Parker responded, “It came from the basement window in that church up there. By the way, somebody got a bandage?” For the first time I noticed the blood on his thigh. “I think I caught a piece of that mirror in my leg.” Parker added with a shrug.
I helped Parker lean against the jeep and started tying my handkerchief around his leg. It didn’t look bad, but it must have hurt like the devil.
“Is anybody else armed?” Les whispered. “All I’ve got is my .45.”
My weapons were back with my unit.
“I got nothing,” Cotton muttered. “Anybody else?”
“Wellllllll…” Parker drawled, “I did find one little thing under the seat of the jeep last night.” He reached into the door behind him and fished what looked like a wooden cigar box out from under the seat. With a grin, he opened it to reveal 2 pineapple grenades.
“What kind of fool travels around with that under his butt?” Cotton asked with a low whistle.
“I ain’t complaining,” Les growled, while handing one grenade each to me and Cotton. “We’re gonna have to go up there and take that guy out. Parkers’s leg is shot so he is gonna have to stay with the jeep. The rest of us can crawl along the wall till we get to that church, then I guess we’ll have to take our chances.”
“I’ll try and draw his fire,” Parker grunted, “just don’t take too long about getting up there.”
With a nod from Les, the three of us started moving along the wall at the fastest crawl we could manage. Behind us, Parker popped his head up and then immediately back down. A bullet spanged off of the jeep, right where he had shown himself. Not a bad shot for somebody with almost no time to aim. On the other hand, admiring the skill of somebody who intended to kill me didn’t exactly come as great for my morale.
Ghosts, Monsters and Madmen Page 18