The Ninth Life

by Clea Simon

  These men. Although Care is focused on AD, focused on the boy, whose thin wrist he now holds, I see the two emerge from the shadows. The ruffians from before step up behind Care, blocking her exit. Blocking too any aid I might provide, though in truth in such a setting, I do not see what I can do. We are in the heart of the city, on a thoroughfare busy with traffic. And although the pedestrians flow like water around the five still figures, I cannot assume they would pause for me.

  One woman, however, looks over. Care’s face is a mask of pain, and the woman sees it. She would speak, I think, were it not for the two enforcers. Brian – his face still showing the traces of my claws – glowers, and the woman ducks her head. Carries on, the drama on the street not of her making.

  ‘Tick?’ The girl has found her voice, and in that one word puts all her grief and longing. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘He grew up,’ AD answers for him, the boy himself keeping his head down. ‘Got himself more street smarts than you ever had, darling.’

  I watch in frustration as the shorter of the two lackeys – Randy? – clasps a beefy hand around Care’s upper arm. He needn’t worry. She is not trying to run except, perhaps, to the boy, who has pulled free only to kick at the sidewalk before him, aiming one scuffed toe at a spot even I cannot see.

  ‘Tick.’ She is pleading, a note in her voice like the mewl of a nursing molly.

  ‘I told you, Care.’ He looks up now, no happier than she but at least, for now, unrestrained. ‘I told you to stay out of AD’s business. You didn’t have to get involved.’

  ‘What business?’ She twists in the villain’s grasp. It doesn’t break, and AD only laughs. ‘What does this have to do with you?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear what the old man said, Care?’ AD’s tone is softly mocking. ‘All that tricky talk about the balance being off? It’s all quite simple, really. Fat Peter had his fat thumb on the scales. He ripped us off once too often. Ripped off other people too, and not everyone is as forgiving as I am. Right, Tick?’

  He clasps the boy’s shoulder, hard enough to make him wince. Care starts forward again at that, and this time the rat-faced one must pull her back.

  ‘Leave him alone.’ She’s getting angry now, fury focusing her earlier confusion and despair. From my place of safety behind the planter, I cannot see the color in her cheeks but I hear the steel coming into her voice. She is outnumbered here, however, and any of the three men could master her. I stare at her back, now as stiff as my own, and will her to control herself. To remember her training, which has stood her in good stead thus far.

  AD pulls the boy close to him, his hand wrapping around that bony shoulder. I see the child look up at AD and then at Care. He appears to be near tears, although I do not understand the conflict that pulls at him.

  ‘It’s not that simple, Care.’ AD is smiling. He has gotten her where he wants her and is driving at some end I cannot see. ‘It’s no longer just up to me.’

  ‘I’ll drop it,’ she says. I can hear in her voice what this costs her. What she is willing to give. ‘Just let him go. I’ll drop the old man’s case and quit poking around Diamond Jim’s. I promise.’

  AD laughs again but there’s something hollow in it. He’s doing it for show, although I do not know why.

  ‘The old man? That’s rich.’ He looks beyond Care to her captors and I brace for a further violation.

  ‘You always did have a wild imagination, girl. No, this is a simple case of a cheat being caught out. A thief who has to pay.’

  Care shakes her head, confused. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘We can’t make things right until we check all the markers off, now can we, Care?’ His fingers tighten, digging into the boy, but the child holds still, more frightened of his captor than of any pain. ‘Maybe I let things slip once, but I’ve got another chance now, haven’t I? ’Cause it seems that Fat Peter wasn’t the only light-fingered member of our crew working the room.’

  The boy whimpers, though whether because of AD’s grip or the threat in his voice I do not know.

  ‘Is it something Tick lifted?’ Care digs her hands into her pockets. Doubt clouds her face as she tries to remember. ‘He never— He just goes for the small things, AD. He wouldn’t take anything serious.’

  AD laughs again, shaking his head as the hand on her arm tightens. Despite his paternal approach he has no love for this girl and is enjoying her discomfort.

  She knows this, from long experience, I believe, and fights the urge to pull away from her captors. The rat-faced one rifles through her bag, looks up and shakes his head. A flash of understanding lights her face.

  ‘Wait,’ she says. ‘I have it. Somewhere.’ She roots through her clothes until she finds the ticket, offering up the battered scrap of paper on her outstretched palm. AD barely glances at it.

  ‘I don’t want your ticket, my girl.’ His voice is cold with scorn. ‘Though I am curious what you had to pawn. I’ve got coin enough these days, and more on the way. No, Care, I’m looking for something else – something that belonged to Fat Peter that you’ve got.’

  Care freezes and then breathes a phrase: ‘The ledger.’ Her exhalation is too soft for human ears but I catch it, envisioning a book, large and leather-bound. Care’s weapon, with which she felled the brute behind her, the one who would have made short work of me. I can still see her standing there, brandishing it in both hands. And, yes, she did run with it, despite its weight.

  ‘That was an accident, AD.’ She’s speaking fast. ‘I didn’t mean – I took off with it.’

  ‘Yes, my girl. We know that.’ AD nods and the other thug comes forward, taking her other arm and wrenching it out of her pocket.

  ‘Wait, no—’ Care protests, too little, too late, as they start to turn her toward the street.

  ‘Officer, there!’ It’s the woman, the one who walked by. She is leading a uniformed man, a bully in his own right, up through the crowd. ‘Those men!’

  Head down, the cop passes her by, his face set on violence. He’s too late. The two goons have stepped back, into the street, their caps low over their faces. AD, meanwhile, has melted away, leaving Tick and the girl on their own.

  TWENTY

  ‘All right, girly.’ The bullish cop stands, legs akimbo, before Care. ‘Now what’s your game?’

  She takes a step backward, into the planter, and I dash around to the concrete pot’s far side.

  ‘Officer, no.’ The Good Samaritan grabs his arm. Not hard enough to dissuade him, but he pauses. ‘She’s the victim here,’ the well-dressed woman explains.

  ‘Really?’ He turns back to Care. She has begun to sidle away but he extends his billy club, blocking her retreat. ‘Phew, you stink. You want to tell this nice lady here what you’re really about, girly? You and your pimp, bringing your dirty business down to the clean part of town?’ His brows go up as he spies something on her, something I cannot see.

  ‘Officer—’

  ‘Hold on.’ He dips his club into Care’s jacket, the pocket she’d been digging in only moments before. When he pulls it out, there’s a cloth on its tip – tan and black and silky. The scarf she had used to disguise her hair. ‘Using that fire as cover for a bit of work, eh?’

  ‘Is that a—’ The Good Samaritan reaches up to her own neck, as if any of us could have spirited part of her wardrobe away.

  ‘That’s how they work it, miss.’ The cop turns ever so slightly, eager to explain to a grateful public. ‘One of ’em creates a distraction. Maybe even set that blaze, then – hey, what’s this?’

  I am not above the obvious. Although I have no doubt that the officer speaks the truth in a general sense, I do not believe my companion has played that particular game. As he was speaking, however, I saw my opportunity and grabbed it, jumping down from the planter to rub against his leg. It’s a risk, for sure. A man like this one may wear a uniform but underneath he is similar to the minion doing AD’s bidding. The sole of his patrolman’s shoe is thick, his leg h
eavy with muscle and fat, and I must remember that I am no longer quite as quick as once I was. Indeed, I feel him shift in preparation for a kick and play my final card.

  ‘Mew.’ I keep my voice soft, plaintive, as I peer up at the matron, blinking my green eyes in feigned affection. ‘Mew,’ I say again.

  The cry she emits is not what I expected. A squeal of hatred or disgust, she recoils as if I were verminous or as rank as a poorly cured pelt. I am taken off guard, it is true, but so too is the officer. Having already checked his initial aggressive reaction to my unwanted advance, he has not yet resumed his wide-legged stance, and in that I see safety. I cannot purr. That is beyond me at this time, but I can lean in, and do, throwing myself against his shin.

  ‘What the hell?’ The man looks down. If only the girl would seize her moment, not hesitate from concern for me. I stare up at her, willing her to go. ‘Hey, girl!’

  Too late, my gaze has drawn his attention back to Care, even as she had begun to sidle by his still-outstretched baton. ‘I’m not done with you!’

  With a glance to me that seems half apology and half despair, she pulls back farther even as he reaches and steps toward her. And as he does, he forgets that I am there.

  The woman shrieks as he stumbles, tripping over me. His steel-toed boots lift me up but a lifetime of training, as well as a lower center of gravity, serve me well as I scramble from beneath his flailing figure and head for the gutter, running fast and low and keeping the girl in sight.

  She takes off like a rabbit, darting around corners and people to elude pursuit. But where a rabbit does this by instinct, I see sense in her flight – a quick appraisal of the landscape guiding her choices as she skips one alley to duck down another, a delivery van providing cover as she squeezes through its torn rear fence. I follow, of course, although the beep-beep-beep of the van signals its backing even as I clear the tires, making the chain link’s gap almost too dear a risk.

  She slows after that but keeps moving and I see her head turning, that mop of hair a beacon to her foes. I will her to go to ground, not least because of my own fatigue: the prolonged sprint has winded me; the ache in my side becomes a piercing with every panting breath. She has become used to hunting, to being in pursuit, but now she is the prey. I would that she seek safety. That she hide.

  Then I see it. She is not merely running, fleeing heedless of the danger. She is adjusting her course, a destination in mind. These streets carry some memories in their perfume – the smell of leather, of horses long gone and, more faint and farther off, tar – and soon I realize that I, too, know our path. We are nearing the train yard, the wasteland where we found safety briefly once before. And where, I realize, the fur stiffening on my neck, we were also nearly trapped.

  She pauses at last, bending, hands on knees, to gasp in air, and with a last effort I reach her, moving from the gutter to the open street to catch her eye.

  ‘Blackie.’ Despite everything, she looks pleased, a smile brightening her pale and sweating face. ‘I thought you—’ She stops and shakes her head. ‘No, you couldn’t have, but thank you.’

  I approach, tempted for a moment to rub her legs, to feel her warmth against my heaving side. Instead, I sit and wait as my own breath grows steady again. This is not the time for sentiment, nor would I have her recall the ploy that I have so recently used.

  ‘OK.’ She nods and pulls herself upright. Walking now, she heads down the street. It is quiet here, far enough from the center of commerce that the pedestrians and police are less of a threat. But no part of this city is without some life. I notice with approval how she looks ahead, leaning to peer around each building before we pass, checking that the fire escapes and windows are as blank and quiet as they appear.

  I check as well, though with other senses more acute than sight. A quick scan, using ears and nose, and we would appear to be alone, the day too early still for the dealers and their shills, the whores and petty thieves who make such borderlands their home. Some are still uptown, hiding under the mantle of respectability, on the hunt. Others wait in restless repose, sheltering inside these husks of buildings. I hear their muttered sighs and snoring, as much the soundtrack of the city as the scrambling of rodents in the drains. I do not sense any undue interest, however. No suppressed breathing, no footsteps shadowing ours. Unmolested, we reach the train tracks, and as the girl slows, inspecting the terrain, it dawns on me what she is after. What she, in her frail human way, is stalking.

  ‘It’s got to be here, Blackie.’ She leads me this time across the tracks and to the pitted junkyard where we had sheltered. ‘The ledger AD wanted. I ran with it, I remember, despite its size. I thought – never mind what I thought. I was thinking more of a weapon than of what the thing actually was. But maybe that was smart of me.’ She pauses. ‘Or maybe I got Tick in deeper because of this. Maybe.’ She stops and wipes her face with her hand as if to block out the memory of betrayal. ‘Maybe this is all my fault.’

  I do not understand her logic. I can, however, see the pain in her, the wincing need that brings tears into her eyes again, and I react, leaning into her now with the affection I withheld before. I relax her, I can feel that, the way my superior warmth and the softness of my fur cause her to unclench just a little. I wait, even, for her to lift me, and will myself not to fight the loss of agency in service of a greater good.

  She kneels, her palm flat against my back, fingers curling to where my side still aches and it is my turn to tense, to anticipate what pain she may unknowingly cause.

  I need not worry. One touch and she has stood again, craning her face around as if to memorize this patch of dirt and refuse. Or, no, to recall it.

  ‘Here,’ she says as much to herself as to me. The rusting shell where we had stopped looks much the same, its detached door still propped against its trunk. She walks up to it but I leap ahead. Our foes have been vicious rather than wily, but I will take no chances.

  As she pokes around the wreck, I examine the stony ground where we once sat – the cold metal the girl had leaned back on – letting the damp air bring me all its mingled traces. She soon begins emitting the sounds of frustration: a grunt, a sigh, even as she lies belly-down on the earth to peer beneath the rotted chassis.

  Although her search appears to be fruitless, mine is less so. There is much to record here: grubs and rot and a decay of a more alchemical sort as this giant machine breaks down. The rain and cold of the previous night have washed away the scent of our earlier sojourn – all I get of the girl is from her close presence, still sweating from our run. There has been another human here, though, and someone close – familiar. A clean, sweet scent, like that of a child but with a hint of something bitter. The breakdown of rust mixed with motor oil, perhaps, or …

  ‘Tick!’ Care’s voice startles me more than I care to acknowledge. I have not heard the boy, nor been aware of another presence. However, there he is – hanging back by the train track, as if he still might consider a run. ‘It’s OK, Tick.’ The girl calls out to him, using the soft cadences one does with a spooked animal. ‘Come here.’

  The boy looks up, hopeful, at the entreaty, but an animal wariness remains and he approaches slowly. Head down, he kicks the ground as he walks, like the child he is. A dangerous child.

  Care waits, sitting back on a rock. I circle, not trusting this unfaithful friend, but for the life of me I get no sense of any others. No sense of the villains who would make quick work of us here, with no civilians to witness.

  ‘How’d you find me, Tick?’

  The question surprises me. I had thought her focused on the book – Fat Peter’s ledger – and I am gratified to hear that she shares my curiosity about the boy.

  ‘I followed you.’ The boy looks up, a glimmer of pride lighting his face. ‘I’ve been doing it for a while. Same way I found the old man’s place.’

  The girl blinks, the surprise knocking her head back. She hadn’t thought to question his appearance the other morning. The boy doesn’t
seem to notice, so desperate is he to make his case. ‘I started doing it just to prove I could,’ he says, a pleading note creeping into his voice. ‘That I’d be good at detecting, too, you know? I wanted you to see that I could do this, and—’ He pauses, his face dropping to the dirt. ‘I didn’t like that you left me behind.’

  He is lying, of course. Prevaricating as all good dissemblers do, confusing the scent with a dollop of truth. That he did not wish to be excluded, I believe. That wish, in fact, may have ensnared him into AD’s plans. However, he did not follow Care – not this time – and I wrack my brain for the means to tell her so. A low growl begins to rumble deep inside me, involuntary but to the point. If I were to approach this boy I would frighten him, and so I hold back, waiting. I have other goals than revenge, and terror will not win me them. Observation, on the other hand …

  ‘You got here awfully fast.’ Care tilts her head, as if to signal that her statement requires an answer, and my growl subsides. This girl knows something of interrogation, though her senses lack the acuity of mine. I start forward, creeping slowly. I would get the scent of this young traitor. Read for myself his recent travels and abode.

  ‘I had a head start.’ The boy flushes, his pale face turning red as his contradiction catches up to him. ‘I mean, I followed you the other day – when you left Fat Peter’s. I knew you were going there, Care. You’d just left AD’s—’

  He stops short, the name of the gang leader a ghost standing between them.

  ‘And AD sent you after me?’ Her voice is so soft now, as gentle as the touch of my whiskers as I come up behind the boy. This close, I see that he is shaking, his tiny frame trembling in his oversize rags. Whatever the men have threatened, it has stayed with him. He reeks of fear and sweat, and of that acrid sharpness. The chemical tang almost obscures another scent, dark and earthy. The boy has soiled himself recently. The funk clings to him like the shame that makes him hang his head. I do not believe he dissembles now. This boy is wretched. A tool of those savage men – nothing more.