I sighed, and dragged my weary body up the steps and into my house. The living room was cold and dark, and I decided that late though the hour might be, I needed light, fire, and music. I snapped on the table lamps on either end of the sofa, and knelt on the hearth, preparing to build a fire. After two tries, the kindling and newspaper finally caught, and in another moment, greedy little orange flames were lapping at the cedar logs I laid in the firebasket. I dusted off my hands and stood up.
“Mrraannk?” my portly gray cat, Repo, commented from behind my favorite overstuffed chair.
“I know what you’re up to over there, you sharp-clawed ingrate,” I told him. Repo was in disfavor, having recently taken to giving himself manicures on the back of the aforementioned chair.
He peered out at me with slit-eyed feline indifference.
“Listen, buster,” I said, going over to explain a few of the facts of life to him. Emulating Gray, I kneeled down beside him and looked him in the eye. “You live the life of Riley compared to the cat in the sack. You’re in feline Lotus Land. So stop complaining. And stop destroying the furniture.”
“Mrraaff,” he said, plainly intending to ignore my comments.
As I popped a tape into the cassette player, Repo strode by, flicking his tail in a feline version of The Bird. “Damn it,” I said to myself, regretting my display of pique. This was the first time in two days he had emerged from the box of rags in the depths of my closet. What did he get for his efforts at sociability? A lecture. Caitlin, you are an insensitive harpy, I told myself. Give the cat a break.
“Hey, Repo,” I called after him. “C’mon back. I’m sorry.”
He turned to regard me once, with his When Hell Freezes Over, Sister look, then flicked his tail again and continued on his way to the bedroom.
“Damned cat,” I muttered. To tell the truth, I was more than a little worried about him. For the past three days, he had spurned his breakfast and his afternoon kibble offering. More alarming, the level in his water bowl seemed to be the same. Did I have a sick cat on my hands? I thought of the astronomical fees vets charged, and shuddered. Well, I reminded myself, at least I had nine of the crisp one-hundred-dollar bills left. And the hundred I had forked over to Gray was going to be replaced by Ms. Shrew—I’d see to that. After all, my fees were two hundred and fifty dollars a day plus expenses.
I poured myself a Scotch and hauled the rocking chair over to the fire. Wrapping myself in my Grandma’s heather-colored mohair blanket, I sat sipping, staring, and listening to Handel’s “Water Music.”
I looked at my watch. Quarter to three on a late October morning in the Pacific Northwest. It would soon be winter—our least pleasant season. We on Vancouver Island congratulate ourselves that we live in the best of all possible climates, and for most of the year this is certainly true. Lately, however, the winters seemed to be getting harsher—why, last winter we had snow. Perhaps what the geologists tell us is true—the ice age cometh. One scientific opinion I read recently hypothesized that the ice age was about seventy years overdue, and that the only thing holding it off was our burning of wood and fossil fuels. This combustion created a layer of particulate matter and CO2 that blanketed the earth and kept the heat in, so the argument went. It seemed logical to me. And another good reason for having a fire tonight. Burn more wood: keep the ice age at bay. And the jackals too.
I finished my Scotch and reached over to set the glass on the brick hearth. Shrew. What an unlikely name. Someone’s idea of romance, no doubt. Probably a bunch of students, “liberating” animals from one of the university’s labs. That sort of thing happened from time to time, despite the fact that the university told us repeatedly that no experiments—well, maybe a few benign learning experiments in the Psychology Department—were performed on animals. Ha. Tell that to Repo. When members of the student Animal Liberation Corps liberated Repo three years ago, he was almost dead. Apparently he had been used in one of the Psych Department’s “benign” experiments, then forgotten. Over the Christmas holidays the animal-lab keeper had gone on a two-week vacation and had made no arrangements for the care of his furry charges. Nine of the twelve cats were dead by the time the ALC got to them, and two had to be euthanized. Repo was the only survivor of the university’s benign use of animals. I wondered idly if Shrew was a member of the ALC in new clothes—student animal activists who had graduated and gone on to challenge bigger bad guys. Was the university up to its old tricks again? I doubted it, considering the media coverage of the dead cats in the psych lab. But if not the university, who then? I supposed I’d find out.
I wondered if my tenants knew anything about this. Malcolm and Yvonne, a pair of blond, expatiate Australians who run the local health food store and cafe, rent the upstairs of my house. Their establishment near the university was a favorite haunt of students. I made a mental note to talk to them before they took off in the morning to fricassee the shiitake or parboil the nori or whatever it was they needed to do for that day’s veggie special. Now don’t misunderstand me—I’m not a total barbarian. Or a blockhead. I realize that there may be some health benefits associated with eating a vegetarian diet. But my main quibble with vegetarian cooking is that it’s such a dangerous occupation. It requires far too much dexterity with sharp instruments. Malcolm is deadly with a cleaver—he can have a carrot sliced, diced, and in the soup pot in the time it takes me to find the knife. Brrr—all that chopping scares me to death. Who wants to have to study to be a Ninja master just to cook dinner? I’ve learned to handle a can opener, and that’s the extent of the bladed weapons I intend to master. Thank the Lord for fast food outlets and delis.
I must have dozed off, because when I opened my eyes the fire had died away. But somehow, the eyes I looked out of were not my own. I had awakened in a large, dimly lit room, and the colors my human eyes should have seen were nothing but shades of gray. I knew, without knowing how I knew, that it was dark outside. I looked around, puzzled. I seemed to be in a box about one foot square. In front of me was a grid of metal. I pressed up against it, but it refused to budge. Then it came to me—I was in a cage, and beside me, below and on top of me were rows of other cages. I opened my nostril and the smell of my fellows flooded in—smells of urine and feces, of sweat and vomit. Smells of despair and terror. A few of us moaned in uneasy sleep, but I could sense that most were awake. Awake and terrified of something in the room with us. The thing we feared most, more than we feared the men-with-things-that-hurt. I squealed, as did several of the others—a feeble show of defiance—as in the shadows I saw the monster begin to grow. I heard its voice, smelled its breath, felt—
My empty glass hit the floor with a clatter, breaking the spell. I awoke fully, in my own body, in my living room. The fire was out and I was stiff and chilled. I pulled the mohair blanket around myself, and wondered just whose mind I had inhabited for those few dream moments. And the presence in the room where I had been imprisoned, that awful, malevolent thing. What in hell had that been? What was I to make of this? In the murky gray light of dawn, I decided that I felt too dispirited to dwell on such things. Sufficient unto the day were the puzzles thereof. And this day hadn’t even begun yet. Tomorrow. I’d think about it tomorrow.
Feeling fragile, I got up out of my chair, folding the blanket. Fluffing it a little, I laid it on the floor behind my armchair. Just in case Repo needed to take a nap in the middle of his next manicure. Grandma Maedhbh would understand.
In my bedroom, I didn’t bother to undress. I just kicked off my Reeboks, and wrapped myself in my down comforter.
“Night, Repo,” I called to him in the bowels of my closet.
Only silence answered me.
Chapter 3
When my clock radio trilled into life just before 7:00 a.m. I wasn’t certain for a moment if I were alive or dead. “Arrk,” I managed finally, struggling to escape from the coils of my comforter. When my feet hit the icy floor, I realized at once that I was alive. A masterful job of deduction.
“Another fatal accident on the Pat Bay Highway,” the announcer read. “Provincial Police report that at about one o’clock this morning, a red Volkswagen Bug crashed through the guard rail and fell to the rocks, fatally injuring the car’s driver, a young woman of about twenty-five. It appears that alcohol was involved. The identity of the driver is being withheld pending notification of next of kin. Police ask anyone witnessing the accident to call the Saanich office of the BCPP.”
I froze, hairbrush in hand. Oh come off it, Caitlin, I told myself. How many red VWs could there be in Victoria? Hundreds, maybe. Well, dozens anyhow. Still, the coincidence bothered me.
I wandered into the kitchen, got the coffee perking, and phoned upstairs to Malcolm and Yvonne’s. No answer. Presumably a pressing appointment with the ratatouille had taken them off to the cafe early. I’d have to drop in on them later.
Yawning, I retrieved the newspaper from the front porch and carried it into the kitchen. As I poured coffee, I looked outside, checking the weather. The morning was a little foggy, but after peering at the sky, I concluded this was the kind of fog that would burn off by midday. We would probably have a beautiful afternoon—a Technicolor sort of day that only occurs on the coast, a day when everything sparkles, and the sky is such an impossible shade of blue that you can hardly bear it. Days like that bring out the gardener in all us Victorians, and even I vowed to go outside later and commune with nature. Maybe I’d rake up the leaves in my side yard. The two massive oaks were already bare, but my maple, which had turned a fiery red-gold at first frost two weeks ago, still stood proudly bearing its bounty of leaves like individual flames. And the apple tree—home for family after family of robins—had a bumper crop of apples. I really should pick them, I thought. Make a pie. Or some apple butter. Be domestic. I snorted—who was I kidding? I’d be doing well to get the leaves raked.
The phone rang and I answered it with no great interest, my mind on my afternoon’s chores.
“Caitlin Reece?”
“Yes.”
“Did you read this morning’s paper?” an aggressive female voice asked.
I always discourage telephone games like this. The caller is usually some weirdo with a burning desire to know the color of your pubic hair. “What do you want?” I asked naturally, on the off chance that this was a client.
“We’re friends of Shrew,” the voice informed me. “So?”
There was silence for a moment. Then the voice exploded in my ear. “She’s dead, dammit. Dead! Doesn’t that affect you at all? She was your client, for God’s sake. Not that you did her any bloody good.”
I held the phone out away from my ear as the voice vilified me. Shrew dead? So she had been the driver of the wrecked VW, just as I had suspected. Damn. Why was I cursed with knowing these things? But the wacko on the phone had to be discouraged.
“Listen, you,” I told her shortly. “You may well be friends of Shrew, but my dealings with her are confidential. They have nothing to do with you. And just for the record, of course I’m sorry she’s dead—if indeed she is.”
“You’re cool, I’ll give you that,” the voice continued nastily, “but you need to get a few things straight. Shrew may have hired you but we all made the decision together, and we all put up the money together. Ten one-hundred-dollar bills. Shrew was representing us.”
I thought this over. “Go on.”
The voice had become a little more reasonable. “You have something that belongs to us.”
“Maybe,” I equivocated.
“Don’t be cute. We want the packages she gave you.”
Hold on—packages? Wasn’t the cat in the sack the only thing she had left for me? I closed my eyes and tried to replay Shrew’s words. I have some things . . . Things. Not thing. Damn. The voice was right.
“Are you there?” the voice inquired testily.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Okay. We have to get together and talk. You need to prove to me that you are who you claim to be—friends of Shrew. And I need to establish for sure that she’s dead.”
Silence.
Then the voice asked huskily, “How will you . . . establish that?”
“I’ll call the morgue. I know people there. But I have to know Shrew’s real name.”
A pause. Then, “Mary Shepard.”
“Okay,” I said. “Meet me this afternoon at the Inner Harbor. Where the float planes land.”
“I can’t. It’s too public.”
That took the wind out of my sails. Too public? Who was she—Barbara Bush? Fergie? Mata Hari? “The gardens at the art gallery should be pretty private about two o’clock this time of year. And that’s my last offer.”
She conferred with someone. “All right. Be sure to bring both packages.
“One thing at a time,” I told her. “I said we’d talk. So we’ll talk.”
I could hear muffled voices as she consulted again. “That’s okay for now,” she said. “But don’t get any ideas about keeping what Shrew gave you.”
I thought about the enormous vet bill the cat in the sack must be running. “Nothing could be farther from my mind.”
I hung up the phone and ran a hand through my hair. I needed to shower, talk to Malcolm and Yvonne, go to my bank, and . . . what else? Suddenly, I remembered. Today was the day I had planned to take Repo to the vet. But first things first. I checked my watch—not quite eight o’clock. How early were garbage dumpsters emptied, anyhow? I had a feeling I’d better hurry. Racing back to the bedroom, I pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt, jammed my feet into my oldest pair of running shoes, and grabbed my windbreaker.
• • •
Back at the Donut Stop, all was quiet. Was it my imagination though, or was the dumpster in a slightly different place from where it had sat last night? Was I already too late? Would I be doomed to pursue this particular load of debris across the province like the Flying Dutchman? I pulled my MG to a stop, got out, and before I could think better of it, hopped inside. No indeed, the dumpster hadn’t been emptied. If anything, it was at least half a foot fuller than it had been last night. I breathed through my mouth and looked resolutely ahead. Don’t look down, I told myself as my foot broke through the plastic of a green garbage bag and I sank to my ankles in cold ooze. Finally I was there—the far right-hand corner of the dumpster. But what was I looking for? Gingerly, I pulled bags of garbage aside, suppressing a gag. There. A large white envelope. I picked it up by one corner. It was Tyvek, that blend of paper and plastic fiber that was water repellant, and nearly indestructible. I held it by one corner and looked at it.
CAITLIN REECE, someone had scrawled hastily across the front. I thought again about Shrew, of the fear in her eyes.
“Okay, Mary,” I said softly. “I’ve got both of them now.”
At the McDonald’s on the highway I used the sink in the ladies’ room to scrub my hands and feet. My shoes were beyond hope, so I abandoned them in the trash bin and marched barefoot back to my car. At the drive-through, I ordered an Egg McMuffin, juice, and coffee, with only a twinge of guilt. One of these days real soon I’m going to get a cholesterol check. Malcolm and Yvonne have almost convinced me to do it. But maybe not this week, I decided. When my breakfast arrived, I toasted my HDL with a flourish, and chug-a-lugged my orange juice.
“Among them be it,” I intoned, uttering my grandmother’s favorite all-purpose fatalistic saying.
I pulled into a parking place, ate the Egg McMuffin in about a minute, then considered the Tyvek envelope. My Swiss Army knife made short work of the fabric, and I cautiously looked inside. Two rolls of film, held together with a rubber band. No
thing more threatening than that. What had I expected anyhow, I asked myself, feeling foolish. An asp?
I sipped the last of my coffee and looked thoughtfully out at the gray autumn sky. One fleeing woman, one maimed cat, and two rolls of film. What was going on here? I couldn’t put the first two parts of the puzzle in their places, but I knew someone who could help me with the last two. I suddenly wanted very much to see what was on those rolls of film.
“Lester!” a girl with a topknot of red spiky hair called over her shoulder. “He’s in the back,” she explained to me, returning to the camera she was disemboweling. I studied her covertly. This was the first time I had ever seen really red hair. I mean, it was crimson. And how did she get it to stand up like that? She looked like some exotic bird. A hoopoe, maybe. I had just about decided I was becoming an old fogey when Lester appeared in the doorway.
I hadn’t seen him for about six months, but he looked just the same—tousled sandy hair, friendly blue eyes, aviator glasses. Neatly ironed blue cotton shirt, clean jeans. Lester is a nice guy—I was glad I had been able to rescue him last year from the influence of his criminal companions and point him down the straight and narrow again. Even if he had almost gotten killed in the process.
“Caitlin!” he said, his face lighting up. I felt touched. He was actually glad to see me. I wasn’t sure how he would feel once he had had time to think things over. After all, I had blackmailed him into helping me with that case. Well, it was heartening to see that he bore me no ill will. “How are you?” He took me by the arm and guided me over to a display of photography books.
“I’m okay. How are you doing, Lester? Still in journalism?”
He nodded happily. “Yeah. I’m editor of the paper this term. And I got a promotion here at the camera shop. I’m assistant manager—evenings and weekends. It pays another two dollars an hour,” he said, lowering his voice modestly.
Crimson Crest glanced over at us curiously. Well, let her think what she would. Having an older woman admirer wouldn’t hurt Lester’s image.
Ninth Life Page 2