The Ninth Life

by Clea Simon

  ‘Blackie!’ The girl’s whisper breaks my train of thought and I turn to see her crouching, a look of panic in her eyes. Following her gaze, I understand. AD is returning, shepherding two of his crew before him toward the pile of pallets. I watch for a moment as the three approach. They seem bigger than the figures in my dream and yet less intimidating.

  ‘Blackie!’ Her voice, a hiss of breath, brings me back, and I follow, slowly, as she creeps off toward a corner. When I catch up, she reaches for me and I pull back. There’s too much to observe here, and besides, I am hurting. Each breath brings a stabbing pang. But when I see her pain, I relent. She is shaking, frightened more than actually wounded, I believe. My presence – the warmth of my fur, ragged as it may be – seems to comfort her, and her hand on my back is light and kind.

  Still, this is no place to wait. The presence of the pallets may mean nothing but the memory of my nightmare lingers and I dare not risk exposure. As AD turns, directing his crew, I slip away. The girl’s eyes are not as keen as mine, her sense of smell useless when it comes to discerning differences in air currents. Off to our left, farther along the dark wall, I sense an opening, and in it I see a possibility of escape.

  It will be a tight fit, but luckily the girl is slim. Half bricked over, forgotten, perhaps in some earlier renovation, the doorway leads to a narrow stairway – broken linoleum worn thin in patches. I peer up to see if it is passable – it seems to be, although this flight is cramped further by an inner wall and by decay that has eaten into the risers, crumbling some steps down to a toehold. Switching back on itself, the stairway ascends into a darkness even I cannot see. They seem to lead away from the interior wall, though there may be another, narrowing them to uselessness. They may be blocked above, the air an illusion, a draft from some rotted crack, the confined passage a trap.

  Even if it offers escape, I know that is not what the girl wants. She had hoped to turn the two men on each other. To make the jeweler pay for betraying her mentor by exposing his ruse to the importer and, in their confusion, rescue the boy. But that did not work, for reasons I still can barely grasp. And with that option ruined, we should exit. At any rate, we need to leave this busy bay – she needs safety, to be away from AD and his cruelty, and I would like time to rest and to mull over the odd convergence of dream and waking life.

  This doorway, I am relieved to note, is not familiar. Although I sense neither danger nor any human presence in the narrow stairwell, I pause, half in, to gauge the distance to its zenith. Air flows down – not fresh but moving freely. Still, I wait. My mind is less clear than I would like. I feel my tail lashing, as it does when I think, but in this dark corner I do not think even its motion will draw undo attention.

  The girl sees it, though. I hear her come up behind me and gasp as she realizes what I have found. ‘Good, Blackie.’ She reaches to pet me, as if I had performed at her command. The contact does us both good. It is never bad to feel that one’s talents are valued, and I start up the stairs with more bounce in my step than I had previously thought possible.

  But the girl does not follow. I realize this as I reach the first landing. I turn and see her, looking back out at the room. Her hands grip the brick that frames the narrow doorway, her fingers turning white from the pressure. Beyond her, in the bay, I hear yelling. One voice – AD, I believe – shouts the others down and is followed by a sharp slap and the sound of someone falling. A cry, cut short. Care leans forward, and I fear she is about to head back out.

  ‘Tick,’ she says, her voice too soft to carry. Besides, the room is now filled with the sound of movements. Voices call out orders – ‘Hey, grab this!’ and ‘Over here’ – as they run across the concrete floor.

  I watch, unsure of what to do, of how to urge her to save herself. The boy has made his choices and they are bad. But I cannot in good conscience wish the girl away. The air from above is not as fresh as I had thought. There is something putrid up there that makes me draw back. I bare my teeth, unsure of what lies ahead. For the first time in a long time, I am unsure what to do. I consider retreat.

  ‘Come on,’ the girl decides, stepping by me as she makes her way up the stairs. She is angry – I can see it in her stride. Hear it in the way her worn sneakers pound the broken stairs, and I am seized by fear. She is not thinking clearly, in this state, as she charges up these dark and secret stairs. And while I once hoped this hidden passage would lead us both to safety, I now hang back. That odor is vile. It fills my mouth and would choke me. Like the blood I taste. Like water, like the flood.

  No! Whatever lies ahead, I cannot let her face it by herself. Already she has passed from my sight, her footsteps fading as the narrow stairs turn once again. I cannot …

  Summoning my last reserves, I race ahead, leaping from stair to stair. The broken lino is slick and on one step I slip, my bruised belly hitting the edge hard enough to make me gasp. I pull myself up and dash ahead, pausing only when I realize the footsteps have stopped. Care has stopped – or left the stairwell. I cannot lose her. Not now. A final burst of speed and I have reached the top – an open door, and Care nowhere in sight.

  FORTY-ONE

  I am drowning. My mouth fills and my heart will burst with the strain. But no, I blink away the vision and realize that it is scent, not water, choking me. For a moment, it is as if I were not a cat, a creature of heightened senses. As if this outpouring of odor was foreign – was, in fact, a substance that could overwhelm me.

  It is a room – one I had missed in my earlier visit, though I had theorized its presence. Guessed at it. A storeroom, the source of the coats I had seen in that tawdry showroom. Large and dark and full of furs badly cured. Of the smell of decay, of death. The scent is stronger here than in that shabby lounge. High square windows, begrimed and fogged by time, let in some light – outside, the moon must be at its zenith – but their few broken panes are not enough to release the corruption. Indeed, what air there is, and a chill breeze does send a scrap of rag flapping, must draft directly to that back passage, for the air in the stairwell gave little hint of the depth of foulness here.

  And then I see her, pale in that faint light. She is stumbling toward the far wall. A fixture, a box. No, to a phone, and as she pulls a card out of her pocket I make my way to her. I am moving slowly. The climb has taken its toll, my injured side heaving, and the smell – the overwhelming scent of death …

  ‘Child in danger,’ I hear her say, her words calling me back through a dark fog, through the water. ‘Please, come soon.’

  What happens next is confusing, the more so because my head has begun to throb. The girl begins to race around. She pushes aside the coats, releasing more of that fetid reek, and dives between them. I want to chase her, to pull her out. This is bad. This is danger, but I cannot. The glow from above grows and pulsates, blinding me. By the time she emerges I am in despair, but although I am howling now, my wail a seemingly distant thing, she does not return to me. Instead, she makes her way around the perimeter – her movements desperate and more hurried. I sense her flailing, even as I cower and cry. Only when she finds something – a door – does she return.

  ‘It’s OK, Blackie. We’re getting out of here, I promise,’ she says. She does not understand – this is not my fear. This room is not merely a cage, not a trap. It is infinitely worse – a room of death.

  ‘Only I’ve got to get Tick.’ She is still talking. ‘No matter what. I promised him, you see.’

  I do not. I see only the light, pulsing in time with my throbbing head. When she reaches for me, I pull away. It is not Care, the girl I have come to trust – to love – whose hand comes toward me. It is another’s – rougher, larger – and I lash out in agony and fear.

  ‘OK.’ She pulls back and I glimpse her shock. Her pain. ‘I’m sorry.’

  With a worried look at me, she heads back toward the stairwell. It would be difficult to see from here, even were my vision clear. The doorway was designed to be hidden from the uninitiated, and as I wa
tch the girl steps into it sideways and seems to disappear.

  I howl. I cannot stand it. Being here is terrible. Losing her, worse, and so I quiet myself. I force myself to follow. Panting from the pain, I slink into the stairwell. She has already begun to descend back to the loading bay, but I catch up with her. She has paused, alerted by the noises below.

  ‘I didn’t think …’ She stops and draws back. The air here is clearer and I feel more myself again. Peeking through the hidden entrance, I see why she has stopped.

  The truck outside has gone. The bay, however, is still open. Only now the light is changing, flashing in time with sirens as cars race up and brakes squeal. In a moment, spotlights flood the interior of the bay, illuminating every crate and pallet. In front of them a line of uniformed men advances, their shadows long before them. The crew stands there, as if transfixed, as another uniformed newcomer emerges from the depth of the bay. He propels AD before him, holding the gang leader’s long arms secured behind his back, over the filthy shirt that hangs loose over his jeans.

  ‘This one made a break for it,’ he yells to his colleagues. AD turns wistfully toward the open bay. In the distance, a whistle blows.

  Beside me, I sense Care craning her neck. We are in the shadows here, the entrance to the stairwell hidden in the stark black. Still, she is careful, keeping inside the dark. Trying to see without being seen. Looking, I realize, for Tick.

  ‘Guess who was in the office.’ Another uniform, a woman, appears, stepping in front of the bay. She has Diamond Jim in front of her. The fat man looks deflated, like a sad toad blinking in the glare of the spotlights. ‘Says he’s not the boss. That he’s just an investor here.’

  ‘Investor.’ The other cop laughs as he hands AD off to a colleague, an officer with a baton. ‘Hang on to him.’ They are rounding up the rest of the crew. They are putting them in restraints, working their way down the line. Care is standing on her toes, holding on to the door frame. Looking.

  ‘Tick!’ she calls out, her voice too loud. People turn, but as they do a scuffle breaks out.

  ‘Watch out!’ AD has pulled his gun. The cop in charge drops his baton and raises his hands. But as he begins to back up, to back away, a shot rings out and AD falls forward with a cry.

  Care gasps – they all do – but she is forgotten in the turmoil. The police have found Bushwick. He has been hiding behind a stack of crates. A stack of crates on one of the pallets. I begin to see double and blink to clear my vision. More noise. Bushwick is on the ground. He is cursing. Struggling. His imprecations take in Diamond Jim – ‘You coward, you fool!’ – and then everyone in the room, which is odd. He does not seem in a position to threaten. The two cops who stand over him look ready to beat him back down again. Still, his voice is a rumble. A curse.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’ He pushes himself up and gets onto his knees. ‘You can’t do this. You can’t be here.’

  He is angry. Undefeated, it would seem, but once again, even through my haze, I get something else – bitter, acid. He is afraid. There is something driving him that scares him more than these cops. There is someone.

  ‘Tick!’ Care cries out again, and this time I see why. The shadows from the spotlights are dark and defined, but the edges of one have started to move. It is the boy, behind a crate. He is taking advantage of the confusion. He is trying to sneak past the cops, out to the bay. To the train track beyond and the freedom of the night.

  In the distance, that whistle again. Metal growling, thundering closer. Closer still. Another wail. It can’t be Care’s voice. It’s not possible. Her second cry is softer than her first, and with all the hubbub it would not be audible across the open room. But for a moment, Tick pauses. He looks up.

  And in that moment, it happens. Bushwick lunges. Pulls away from the officer who holds him and grabs the boy, lifting him off his feet. With one arm around Tick’s waist, he has drawn a blade – a box cutter – and holds it to the boy’s throat.

  ‘Just leave. Leave. All of you.’ He holds the boy close and looks around. The open bay yawns behind him. ‘You can’t be here. You can’t—’

  It happens that fast. A second shot, the sound a thunderclap in the open space, and he is down. Care gasps and would leap forward, only I am there, underfoot, and she trips, stumbling out of the passage.

  It does not matter. The cops are focused on the man, who has fallen backward, and then on the boy. A cheer goes up. One officer has hoisted Tick up for all to see. He has blood on him but he appears more stunned than injured. In fact, as the cheers die down, we hear him.

  ‘Put me down!’ He kicks and writhes as the police laugh. Behind them, Bushwick stirs.

  ‘Not just yet, little man.’ A woman in an overcoat – a woman with a large purse and rusty curls – emerges. She nods at the cop and takes Tick firmly by the hand. The cop steps back, but as he does so the impossible happens. The prone Bushwick rises, bleeding but alive. Stumbling, he breaks for the dock and, as the cry goes up, jumps to the ground, running. The track is lit by the oncoming train, silhouetting the big man and the three officers in pursuit.

  ‘He’s going to make it!’ One of the cops – the one with the gun – stops still, drops to one knee and draws. The train does not slow, its whistle warning all in its path. Bushwick staggers up the embankment, the rock and cinder spewing out from beneath his feet. Another of the cops – younger, leaner – sprints toward him, reaching for his collar, for his leg.

  Bushwick jumps – and misses. An agonized shriek cut short. The lead cop stumbles backward in horror. The others stop running and lower their weapons. Inside the bay, the sound of vomiting.

  The woman has Tick’s hand in hers. He pulls back but the fight is gone. He looks over at us – at Care – but he goes with the big woman. Beside me, Care sobs – once, with a heave of breath that I think will break her heart. But as the rest of the crew is rounded up and herded past the spotlights, their fight gone, she crawls backward, broken into the stairwell.

  ‘That your big boss out there?’ One of the cops is looking at Diamond Jim. It’s not a question, though, and the jeweler doesn’t answer. ‘That’s who you invested with, huh?’

  I retreat to where Care is sitting, hands on her knees on one of the broken stairs. I lean against her, exhausted and confused, but I can share my warmth, and for a minute or two we sit there silently, taking in what has happened. But as the cleanup continues she rouses and starts back up the stairs, climbing as quietly as she can. I follow, my head once more pounding as we near the hidden storeroom. The smell of death thick in the air; the stench making it hard to breathe.

  ‘Well, at least Bushwick got what was coming to him,’ she says when we get there. She has collapsed against the wall but I cannot join her. I stand, staring at the coats. Trying to understand. ‘I should have known he was the boss, that the marker was going to him. Known that he …’

  She stops, a look of horror on her face. ‘The marker – that was the signal that the old man was on his way. The old man – he was the price. He wasn’t killed only to get him out of the way – his death was what Diamond Jim brought to the deal.’

  My head explodes in light and noise. The door bursts open. Men are yelling. Running. I am in pain and I howl. I cry with a voice not my own. A desperate cry. A man’s scream.

  Too late, too late. I see this room and I know. I see the thugs. Their master staring as they throw me down. I see the gun. The noise. The pain. The three men watching as I fade. I see my death. I smell my death. Have smelled it all along. That stench. The furs. I was killed here. I was killed. I was …

  ‘What’s that?’ A voice breaks through. ‘Someone’s there.’ A flashlight runs along the floor. It leaps over the narrow entrance to the stairwell, my sharp eyes catching the shadow as Care disappears inside. ‘Who’s there?’

  I launch myself with a caterwaul, ready to face them down. To buy her time. To die again.

  ‘What the—?’ The light blinds me once more. And then
– a laugh.

  ‘It’s just a cat, Rico.’ Another laugh. The men were scared as well, unsure of what they’d find. ‘Some mangy old stray they must have let in to keep down the rats. Kind of like the ones that old man used to feed.’

  ‘Well, shit.’ The flashlight swings instead to the coats and up the walls. The men retreat. Another room searched. More inventory to log.

  I find her in the stairwell, sobbing quietly with fear and loss. I am still stunned, taking in what I have learned. Absorbing what I now know. I lean against her with my cat body, giving her what comfort I can. This girl is my charge now. My protégé. My child. I feel her calm and settle as the noises outside begin to disperse. By the time we descend, the bay is dark and locked. Yellow tape festoons the doorway and the empty pallets; the smell of blood and vomit.

  Care has a bad moment when she tries the door. It is padlocked and will not budge. But now that I remember, I am able to lead her to a secret entrance, the remainder of the smugglers’ passage, and onto the street. I am bone tired, sore and aching from the night’s event, and I do not object when she lifts me up. She is trembling, not entirely from the cold, as we make our way through the city.

  By the time we return to the office – my office – the sky has brightened, a harsh grey light showing me the toll this night has taken on her. She is too young for this life. Too young for such dangers, but she has not had many options. Besides, she is smart, this girl. And I have trained her well.