Echoes of Darkness

by Rob Smales

  A retort sprang to Billy’s lips, but he saw that even as he cracked wise, Dag was checking the thin plastic strips around Agatha’s left arm, making sure they weren’t too tight.

  “What are you doing in my house?”

  The scratchy, old voice wasn’t loud, but still surprised Billy so badly he nearly dropped the steak. He fumbled with it as Agatha Harper tilted her face up toward him, eyes fluttering open, though still a little unfocused, and one already swelling. He reached to put the meat on the counter, but flinched when he saw the countertop was lined with small feline bodies. He glanced about, for the first time not distracted by the woman’s eye, and saw that the whole crowd from the front hall had followed them deeper into the house, and now sat all around them, staring with their bright, flat eyes.

  “Jesus,” he whispered. “Dag, look at all the cats.”

  But Dagner was busy answering the woman’s question.

  “Your money, you crazy old woman! We’re here for your money!”

  He was leaning close, shouting into her face like some B-movie villain. Billy figured he was trying to make up for the fact that, when the woman was standing, Dagner wasn’t quite up to her shoulder. He was taking control of the situation, being the bad guy he’d probably always wanted to be: large and in charge. But the situation, in Billy’s opinion, was rapidly growing weird; Dagner was just too busy to notice.

  “What money?” Agatha shouted, only half-cowed by Dagner’s antics. “What are you talking about?”

  “Uh, Dag?” said Billy.

  “The cash,” said Dagner, ignoring Billy. “That green stuff you keep using to buy cat food. I seen you. Always cash. Where is it?”

  “That’s not my money,” Agatha said. “That belongs to them.”

  “Them?” Dagner stood straight in his confusion, barely taller than her, though she remained seated. “Who the fuck is them?”

  “Dag?” Billy said again, not looking at Dagner and the woman, but aware of both in his peripheral vision.

  “Them.” Agatha Harper twitched a shoulder, reflexively trying to gesture with a bound hand, then jerked a chin toward the kitchen around them, but Dagner didn’t take his eyes from hers. “The cats. It’s their money—I just use it for them. They can’t very well just go to the store themselves, can they?”

  “Holy shit,” said Dagner. “You really are crazy.”

  “Dag!” Billy finally reached out a groping hand and grasped Dagner’s arm, hard, unable to take his eyes from the rest of the kitchen, his voice a strangled half-shout; he had to break Dagner’s focus, but he wanted, very badly, not to draw any other attention to himself. Dagner’s arm jerked from the grip as the little man turned to face him.

  “What? What do you—oh!” Billy heard air hissing in through clenched teeth, then a whispered “Holy shit.”

  There were two things Dagner could have been reacting to, but Billy wasn’t sure which of them had made the tiny tough guy sound like he’s just been punched in the gut.

  The first thing, what Billy had spent the past minute or so trying to get Dagner’s attention over, was the cats—no, the cats. Billy had thought all the cats had been in the front hall with them when he’d popped the old lady, but that had been a narrow hall, a much smaller space than the vast kitchen. There had been fifteen or twenty packed into that hall with them, but there were easily four times that many, maybe five, sitting and staring at them from the surrounding kitchen. And they were still coming, strolling through the door in twos and threes, occasional loners loping along solo. Counters, table, chairs; everywhere he looked, Billy saw furry little bodies, of every color he’d ever seen on a feline. There were short-haired cats, and fluffy cats—even a couple of those hairless things that looked like tiny, wrinkled aliens—all sitting statue-like, lashing tails all stilled.

  And they were silent. While the cats greeting the old woman in the hall had filled the air with noise, packing more purring, meowing cat-chatter into that hallway than Billy had thought possible, they were closing on a hundred cats in that kitchen, not one of them making so much as a sound. They paid no attention to each other, but came in the door, chose a spot amongst the crowd, and either sat or lay down, all their unblinking attention fixed on the three-person tableaux before them. Everywhere Billy looked, he found silent, staring eyes.

  It was fucking unnerving.

  The second thing Dagner may have been reacting to, the thing that had spurred Billy to reach out and grab his partner—would have given him a shake to get his attention, a slap if necessary—was the huge, orange, goliath of a cat stalking toward them from the open door. As they watched, the big beast reached the edge of the expanding circle of sitting, staring cats about them, and the dense carpet of furry bodies parted before it, cats shuffling or rolling aside to make way for the newcomer, then sliding back to fill the space behind it as it moved on. Not one of them challenged the big cat, nor even looked its way, but moved as if responding to instinct, or some inaudible command.

  For an instant, Billy thought it must be a different mammoth feline. Hard on the heels of that thought, though, came the same one that had occurred to him when they’d happened upon the orange monster lying across the back of the couch: there was no way there were two of those things in the whole world, never mind within the walls of a single house.

  It had to be the same one.

  “But,” said Dagner, “I thought you locked him in the—”

  “I did.” The words were a dry-throated rasp.

  “Well then how . . .”

  “I have no fucking idea.”

  The great cat reached the far side of the butcher-block centerpiece and leapt up without a sound. A scattering of thuds marked the half dozen or so cats that had occupied that perch dropping to the floor, silently taking up new positions as the felines about them made room.

  It’s like he’s their king, Billy thought, watching the cats redistribute themselves as the big boss cat made his stately way to the front of the block and sat, back straight, head high, boxing-glove shaped paws practically dangling off into space. His huge, fluffy tail curved in from the side, wrapping about in front, covering the paws, and then the big cat went just as still as the rest of them.

  “Oh, no,” came the whisper, and it took Billy a moment to realize it was the woman, not Dagner, who had spoken. He tore his eyes from the cat—made even more impressive by the height of his perch, for sitting up on the block brought his eyes to a level higher than Dagner’s—to take in the other two people in the room. Agatha Harper looked haggard, long, withered features drawn into an expression Billy might not have identified, but for her eyes, staring at him and bright with fear. Dagner’s expression was also unreadable, thanks to the mask, but his magnified eyes were busy, darting here and there about the room. The voice that finally seeped through the mask was an awed whisper.

  “Holy shit!”

  “I know,” Billy whispered, still trying not to attract attention, though they were clearly the focus of the room; all of those bright, expressionless eyes fixed in his direction gave him the feeling his skin was crawling around on him. “Why don’t we—”

  “Look at them all,” said Dagner, as if Billy hadn’t spoken. He sounded dazed. “You feed . . . all of these, without . . . without going to the bank? Paying in cash?”

  “Just wait, buddy,” said Agatha, her voice low, but still the only one above a whisper.

  “All of them?” Dag’s voice rose now as well. “Billy, do you have any idea how much that would cost?”

  “Huh?” said Billy, not really tracking the conversation as his eyes swung toward the huge orange cat again. Sunlight glinted off the beast’s broad chest, and Billy caught sight of that golden disc dangling from some collar or chain buried in the thick orange fur.

  “There has to be ten grand in this house,” said Dagner, and Billy winced at his sudden volume in the big, silent room. “Maybe more. Where is it?”

  This last was a ragged scream. Billy whirled to see
Dagner, nose-to-nose with Agatha, little fists bunching the front of her brown-sack dress, spitting the words in her face. He’d been trying to intimidate her before, but this . . . this was something different. His partner’s words rolled through Billy’s head, and delayed comprehension followed.

  Ten grand? he thought. He was only talking about a couple thousand before. Ten would be his biggest score ever. No wonder he’s losing it.

  “Buddy,” said Agatha Harper, her voice straining for calm, “leave it alone. I’ll handle it.”

  “Handle what?” said Dagner. “You’ll hand it over, is what you’ll handle.”

  “I told you.” She turned from Dagner’s wild eyes, looking in Billy’s direction. “It’s not my money to give. It’s the cats’.”

  “Well, let’s talk to one of them then!”

  Moving with athletic speed and surety he could never have managed if he’d thought about it, Dagner snapped out a gloved hand, snatching one of the cats from the nearby countertop. As Dag spun back to the old woman, Billy caught a ripple of motion from the corner of his eye.

  He looked at the small sea of cats surrounding them, expecting that Dag’s sudden fast movement had spooked their furry audience. As his gaze swept the kitchen, however, he didn’t think any of them had moved an inch, and it took him a moment to recognize what was different: though not one of them had taken a step, all their heads were down now, little triangular chins almost touching the floor, their eyes, unless he was mistaken, fixed on Dagner.

  “Dag . . .” he murmured, something about the cats touching a nerve, some instinct buried within him, from way back when man was not at the top of the food chain. Earlier, the mob of little animals had given him the creeps; now they seemed to exude an air of menace, and the primitive urge to back down into the safety of a hole and pull something over it welled up, almost strong enough to drown him. Agatha Harper wailed, tearing Billy’s eyes back her way. Dagner faced her, a small black cat in one hand. Despite the claws from three feline feet being buried in his wrist, he’d managed to get a grip on one forelimb, and now held it stretched straight out from the little black body.

  “Buddy, please! They don’t understand!”

  “Oh, I know they don’t understand.” Dagner thrust the little ball of fur and claws toward her face, forcing her to see it. “That’s why I’m asking you. I’m counting to three, and if you’re not already tits-deep in telling me where the cash is, I’m snapping this leg like a fucking matchstick. One.”

  “Hey, Dag!” Billy said in protest, but he could see it was no use: with the money in his head, Dagner’s world had shrunk down to just him and Agatha Harper. He wasn’t even hearing Billy any more.

  “Don’t!” shouted Agatha. “I—I—” Her head whipped to the side, her eyes spearing Billy again. “Buddy!” Billy stiffened at the woman’s obvious plea for help, his longing for this to just all be over warring with his almost physical need to flee.

  “Two.” Dagner set his shoulders, obvious in his intention to follow through with his threat and snap the little cat like a schoolyard bully breaking a pencil. Agatha shifted her head to the side, then further, leaning as much as her bonds would allow . . . and that was when Billy realized she wasn’t looking at him, but past him.

  Wait! He spun to look at the huge orange cat behind him, sitting high and watching the proceedings almost regally. Buddy? The golden disc flashed again, an errant bit of sunlight dancing across its surface. Billy leaned in closer, fearful of putting his face within reach of the beast’s undoubtedly huge claws, but with a burst of insight it was suddenly vastly important that he know. The tag, or whatever it was, lay flat across the broad chest, thrust forward by the thick ruff beneath it, and as Billy squinted slightly, the engraved lettering became clear:

  Buddikshasa

  “Buddikshasa,” Billy whispered, and with the word something about the cat changed. That feeling that he should run, should run right now, swelled to monstrous proportions. His gaze darted up to the big cat’s eyes—

  —and was captured, as he realized what had changed. Since entering the kitchen, the big cat’s attention had been on the woman in the chair—and maybe the little man threatening her—but not Billy. Just as the woman had looked past Billy to see the cat, so Buddikshasa had looked past him to see the woman. At the mention of his name, though, his full name, the great orange animal’s attention had shifted, and was now wholly on Billy.

  The eyes staring straight into Billy’s were wide, and golden, and beautiful, but they were also cold, and alien, and somehow merciless, and Billy felt the world shift as he met them, like the jounce at the end of a fast elevator ride. He nearly lost his balance, but though his body wanted to take a steadying step, tried to take a step, his feet refused to move. His bowels tightened, then loosened, as the sensation that the shit was hitting the fan washed over him.

  “Three,” said Dagner, and Billy wanted desperately to spin and tell the little man to stop, stop what he was doing right fucking now, to forget about the money and just run. He knew the little man was doing it again, thinking he was so smart but was too caught up in what he was doing to see the world around him, to feel that it had all gone wrong, gone so wrong, and Billy desperately wanted to tell his friend to drop it, cut his losses, and they could just go.

  But he didn’t. Couldn’t. Couldn’t look away from those beautiful, terrible eyes, as the bushy, orange tail lifted toward the ceiling as if drawn by a string. In his peripheral vision, Billy saw shadows shift across furry backs and haunches as feline muscles flexed and bunched, and the tension in the air was suddenly thick, and electric. The room was silent, but for Agatha’s quiet sobbing, so Billy clearly heard the voice of the small cat clasped in Dagner’s gloved hands: not a sound of pain, but of fear and confusion.

  A request for help.

  Buddikshasa’s mouth cracked open, and as his tail fell to the butcher’s block with a thump, he loosed a low, rumbling cry: Mraaaaw!

  The room about them exploded into motion and sound. A hundred tiny throats spat out a hundred terrible moans, sounds he’d never heard from the cats on television, like the wailing of lost souls falling into Hell. Though he couldn’t tear his eyes from those of Buddikshasa, all around the edges of the butcher’s block table he detected flickering motion, little kitty bodies flowing forward like water through a burst dam. They brushed his legs again, but rather than twining about his lower limbs like warm and purring climbing ivy, they sinuously slipped past his shins and ankles. He was standing in the flow of small forms darting by without pause, only brushing against him because that took them along the straightest path between where they’d begun and—

  Dagner cried out: first in surprise, and then in pain, and finally he screamed in terror.

  “Billy! Jesus fuck—stop ’em! Billy! Help!”

  Words degenerated into another brittle scream, and then thudding footsteps mingled with the soft, rolling thunder of hundreds of paws and those terrible yowls. The screams and footsteps moved as Dagner made his way across the big kitchen, and the light in the room changed as the back door opened, then slammed.

  No! Billy thought. Dag, please, man, take me with you! Please!

  Though he strained to call out to his partner, wanting with all his heart to turn and follow the fleeing man out into the world, away from this crazy lady and all of her cats, Billy stood silent and still, staring into the wide and faintly glowing eyes of Buddikshasa. Screams faded into the distance, and the doggy door flap-flap-flapped as the cats flowed right on through to continue their pursuit. Buddikshasa’s eyes grew, widening until Billy saw nothing but those eyes, alien, and merciless, and though his body made not a sound, Billy’s mind screamed and wept as it tipped and fell into those utterly bottomless eyes.

  “. . . And you didn’t see the man trying to scale the fence?” said Detective Shaun Gantry, breathing shallowly, and through his mouth; the smell in this house was enough to knock a man down. Beneath the table, he nudged a small, feline body aw
ay with one foot.

  “No, Officer,” said the older woman with the shapeless brown dress and flyaway hair. The demotion stung, but he knew it was unintentional, and the woman had been through a lot. He let it go. “I was tied to the chair, like I told you.”

  “Until Billy”—he checked his notes, the flipping pages attracting the paw-swinging attention of the kitten in the chair beside him—“Spavington, here, released you.” Gantry pointed his pen toward the large man sitting next to Agatha Harper, but the man didn’t react.

  “Like I told you,” the woman repeated.

  “And he’s your live-in helper and handyman, is that right?”

  “Like I told you.”

  Through the window behind them, Gantry could see the medical examiner’s team hoisting the body off the spikes along the top of the fence, three cats supervising from the grass. They’d identified the man as Valentine DuBois, and though he hadn’t known Valentine, the way he’d died made Gantry suppress a shudder.

  “And you have no idea how the man wound up, uh, on your fence?”

  “I told you, Officer, I was—”

  “Tied to the chair,” he finished for her. “Yes. So you said.” Gantry eyed the man, who sat staring silently back. There was something . . . off about William Spavington. He’d been here when the police arrived, but the woman had done all the talking. She’d explained that Mr. Spavington didn’t speak, and when Gantry had asked the man for some ID, Ms. Harper had helped him get it from his wallet. It looked to Gantry like the man had never even seen a wallet before.

  And there was something else, Gantry realized. They had all sat down while Gantry did his incident interview, and while he had flipped pages in his notebook and jotted things down, and Ms. Harper had fidgeted about, fussily arranging and rearranging her dress, occasionally trying to smooth her wild hair, William Spavington had sat still as a statue, head erect, strange golden eyes open the entire time. And when he thought back on it—and he was thinking back on it now, hard—Gantry couldn’t recall the man even blinking, though it had been more than ten minutes.